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Elizabeth Kumler Miller 



mitii a tribute by 
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United Brethren Publishing House 
Dayton, Ohio 



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Copyricht, igog. by 

United Brethren Publishing House 

Diyton. Ohio 



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TO 

HER MANY FRIENDS 

IN THIS COUNTRY AND ACROSS THE SEAS 

THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY 

DEDICATED BY HER 

SISTER 



PREFACE 

I hese poems, children of the hearl and brain of oui beloved 
Mrs. I.. K. Miller, are here collected and senl oui to refresh, 
to entertain, to instruct, to inspire, and to enrich the friends 
who shall read, and the larger company oi those who may 
hear their meis'sage. Each has its message t • > the individ 
ual, or to the gr< tup, or to all. 

Not all arc here. Ii has been a delicate task to seleol 
How we longed for her own judgmenl ii» aid our choio I 
Some were written for special occasions, and required the 
place, her voice and personality i<> make them mosl 
effective. < >thers were so persona] thai ii seemed a breach 
of courtesy to make them public. Many included in this 
volume are personal, l>ui they also contain sentimenl of 
genera] interest. 

There was much in her prose writings we should like to 
have given, '"'i ii seemed besl to limil the book almosl entirely 
to the poems. 

They are grouped according to similar features, thai they 

may be readily found. Thej are presented nol alone to h r 

her memory, l>ut thai her life through them may be pel 
petuated, and to advance her greal life purpose the giving 
of the gospel to the dark places of earth. 

Sweel memories are haloed around us 

I n love lii guides to her goal. 
Her themes, ever lifting us homeward 

I n can ils of hearl and of soul, 

Siill linger in echoes of gladness 

That wai'i From the realm of the skies. 
Where, joined with the angels, she's singing 

New soii^s of her loved paradise. 

L. R. I Iaio ord 

vll 



TRIBUTE 

A cut, a surgeon's wound, a bandage. Ten days, 
and the stitches may be removed ; two weeks, four 
weeks, six weeks, and restoration may be spoken of 
with confidence. Not so with an affair of the heart. 
One month, four months, five months, and the hurt has 
scarcely begun to heal, the wound seems as deep as 
ever. 

I lived it all over again last night, and the tear-drops 
fell like rain. I am speaking of my sister. On many 
accounts we were more than sisters. No child was 
left her to love, and I was bereft of my only daughter. 
The relationship was doubly clear. 

They carried her, you know, from her home to mine. 
I saw her again last night, coming in a chair. She 
was very happy those days, as she leisurely walked 
about the rooms, her own, on the north, giving the 
comforts of a much cooler climate. It was always her 
thought she would come to me for "such a time as 
this." 

If announcement to her that a palliative treatment 
was the best that could be given caused her any dis- 
comfort, we never knew it. 

She smiled, and called me by my baby name, as if 
I were a little girl, and was as sweet and cheerful 
those four months as though she were expecting to be 
herself again within a short time. We had been much 



together. On many occasions she had said, "Do you 
know the best has always come to us?" She was so 
appreciative — even this sickness she accepted as the 
best from her Heavenly Father's hand. While she 
loved everybody and every beautiful thing in the world, 
and naturally desired to witness the consummation of 
certain events, she surrendered all and was sunny to 
the very end. 

I lived it all over last night. I heard her sweet voice 
bidding me throw open the shutters and let the glo- 
rious morning in. I heard the little snatches of song 
she wrote for the little maid who put on her stockings 
and slippers each morning, and other bits of rhyme, 
thus converting the humblest service given her into 
poetic pleasure. I heard her daily thanks for being 
under our protection, and always in a little German 
manner she had learned from our mother, as if to 
divert from the occasion the slightest shade of sadness. 
I beheld anew the wealth of flowers and smelled their 
fragrance, as she dipped her face among them to get 
the sweetest odors. I beheld the women with tear- 
dimmed eyes, and the thoughtful faces of the men as 
the}- entered her room and came out with refreshing 
peace upon their countenances ; her delight at seeing 
the little children and the neighbor's baby, carried in 
at her request. I saw her with a group of nieces about 
her, as she sat recounting the value of some of her 
little belongings and saying, without a tear, "This is 
for you, and you, and you." I saw her as she prepared 
to read the will to three devoted children, the will and 
testament of our beloved sister, so lately gone from us. 
I saw her, as so queen-like she sat, awaiting the arrival 
of the document. I saw her as she sat on Monday, at 



noon, her last Monday with us, taking her pen, and in 
the presence of friends, inscribing her name in dispo- 
sition of her remaining worldly goods. Her heart was 
full of love for her kindred, and to those immediately 
about her she gave minutest direction for the dark 
days she knew were so soon to be upon them. I lived 
it all over in the lonely night watches, and opened my 
arms wide to receive her back — except for her own 
dear sake, who had finished so well the work of a 
beautiful life. 

Lest a sister's praise be deemed too flattering, let 
me use, without permission, two tributes — one from a 
far-away friend, one from her attending physician : 
"The world has never had anybody sweeter in it, or 
one to whom I have been more closely bound." "A 
very superior woman ; the most radiant patient I have 
ever seen." 

When the great fleet left our waters some months 
ago, on a friendly visit to distant ports, a few belated, 
erring seamen ran excitedly along the shore with cap 
and garment afloat in the air, as if, perchance, to catch 
the commander's eye. and in some way, somehow, 
cause the vast machinery of those vessels to be 
reversed, that they might clamber aboard. To-day, on 
errand no less pacific and far-reaching, we launch her 
modest endeavors. We kiss the pages ere we let them 
go, for they were a part of her very self, and say to 
every one who comes within the sweet influence of her 
writings, "May none be left behind." 

Susan M. Funkhouser. 



CONTENTS 

Biographical Sketch 1 

I. Devotional. — 

PAGE 

Our Praise 11 

My Day 11 

Lift Up Thine Eyes 12 

Fruition 13 

Suffer the Children to Come 15 

The Highest Good 16 

Sweeping Into Glorv 16 

Unite for Right....". 18 

Not Yet Too Late 18 

Our Tribute 19 

Sleep, Death 20 

If Ye Love Me. . 21 

Kingly Giving .'. 23 

Giving Will Bless Thee 23 

. To-Day 23 

II. Missionary. — 

Bid Us Go Forward 27 

A Heathen Maiden's Plea 29 

Ideal Compensation 30 

God Speed Our Missionaries 31 

Hold the Ropes 32 

Help Roll the Stone Away 34 

Only Be Strong 36 

Our Martvred Friends 37 

China 39 

Decennial Lines 40 

III. Nature. — 

March 47 

The Blue Skv 48 

Our Father's Skill 49 

To a Wild Bird 51 

My Song 52 

Cruelty in Fashion 54 

IV. To Children. — 

The Little King 59 

The Baptism 60 

The Gospel for Others 61 

To the Girls and Boys 61 

Impromptu Cradle-Song 62 

xiii 



PAGE 

V. Anniversary Days. — 

Christmas Day 67 

The Song the Shepherds Heard 67 

The Holy Night 68 

Christmas 69 

The Message of Our Savior Friend 70 

Christmas Message 70 

The Old Year 70 

The Old, the New 71 

The New Year 72 

Between Two Centuries 72 

The Old, the New 73 

Easter Morning 74 

The Lord Is Risen 77 

Resurrection Day 77 

Why Weepest Thou 78 

Thanksgiving 79 

Thanksgiving Bells 79 

The Boys in Blue 80 

A Hundred Years 80 

A Score of Years 85 

Golden Wedding Anniversary 91 

Sixtieth Wedding Anniversary Greetings 92 

VI. Tributes. — 

Mrs. Sylvia Haywood 99 

Our Heritage . .". 100 

A Tribute 103 

On the Death of a Little Child 104 

I Love Thee 105 

Beth-Eden 106 

A Leaf from Goethe's Grave 106 

Three-Score Years 107 

Semi-Centennial Ode to Otterbein 108 

A Little Tribute 112 

Greetings 115 

The Seminary's Silver Year 116 

To the Seminary Women 117 

VII. Miscellaneous. — 

When I Am Old 123 

The Isle of the Long Ago 125 

Warmed 125 

Philalethea 127 

The Woman's Crusade 127 

Tablets 128 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



Elizabeth Kumlcr Miller (Frontispiece). 

"The Majesty of Sky and Sea." 

"A Little Chinese Maid." 

'Neath Tropic Suns. 

March. 

On the Lowest Limb. 

The Arrival of the Shepherds. 

First Easter Dawn. 

( Five of the above illustrations are from original sketches 
made by Mrs. Bertha Kemp Gibbons.) 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH * 

Elizabeth Kumler Miller, second daughter, fourth 
child of Rev. Daniel C. Kumler and Katharine Walter 
Kumler, was born in a little new brick house on a 
farm near Millville, Butler County, Ohio, Sunday, 
February 1, 1835. Here she grew up with the large 
family of children, trained to plenty of earnest work 
and plenty of play and fun. In those early times, 
girls were called to the fields during the busy season, 
so that she and her older sister, Mary, often dropped 
corn in the freshly-turned furrows out of their little 
blue aprons, while a white-nosed horse, drawing the 
covering-hoe, called "jumper," often nudged them in 
the back, thus telling them kindly to "hurry up a 
little" ; and in harvest-times, carrying jugs of fresh 
water to the workmen and carrying sheaves into piles 
for the shocks, was their frequent task. Thus, with 
horse-back riding and the like, they grew up strong 
and sturdy. Both girls learned to spin tow and flax 
on their little wheels and wool on the big ones, when 
they vied with each other to spin each her "dozen cuts 
a day." A walk of a mile and a half to the village 
school, through all sorts of weather, helped lay the 
foundation of their early education, where the "com- 
mon branches" were studied over and over and re- 
viewed year after year. At the age of seventeen, 
Elizabeth was sent to Oxford Female Seminary for 

l 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

three months, when a taste for learning was deepened, 
and, at her earnest solicitation, at nineteen years of 
age, she was permitted to be one of the first group 
of students from the Miami Valley to enter Otterbein 
University. Her gratitude for this privilege never 
ceased, nor did her enthusiastic love for Otterbein ever 
wane. She graduated in a class of seven in 1858. 
and June 10, 1908, she sat at a reunion breakfast at 
the home of Mrs. Melissa Haynie Fisher, one of the 
seven, with two others, three of the seven, to celebrate 
the fiftieth anniversary of their graduation. The 
other two were Rev. Daniel Eberly, D.D., of Hanover, 
Pa., and Mrs. Fisher, hostess of the occasion. The 
pleasure at the recollection of this reunion breakfast 
cannot be expressed. Three of the others have passed 
over to the heavenly country, one of whom was the 
immortal Benjamin R. Hanby, the sweet singer, 
author of "Darling Nellie Gray" and many other 
beautiful songs. One of the seven is "unheard of" 
for the time. 

The year after graduation, Elizabeth taught five 
months in the village schools of Seven Mile, in the 
primary room, where an average of about sixty was 
her allotment, five of whom were colored. 

May 31, 1859, she was united in marriage to John 
S. Miller, of Pataskala, Ohio. Shortly after, the 
newly-married couple began housekeeping in a little 
log house on the edge of a large wood, many of whose 
trees were large sugar maples, where the new expe- 
rience of "sugar-camp" work delighted them. Here 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

they proved to themselves, and to many friends who 
visited them, that fine things, costly things, are not 
essential at all to genuine happiness, at least to lovers 
of nature. The great deep forest on the north and 
west, the more open spaces on the east and south, 
through which neighboring houses and farms were 
clearly visible, have been a constant joy through all 
the after years. Then the woods were peopled with 
squirrels and wild turkeys, both of which were often 
chief dishes for feasts at their table, and in the open 
the birds were as wild with delight to sing to them as 
they were to listen to their songs. Here their little 
son, Amos Daniel, was born, in October, 1861. Here 
some dear friends were entertained. Benjamin R. 
Hanby, after a lovely night's visit, advised that no 
undue haste be made to quit the charming woods — 
just what a man with a poet's heart could say in all 
sincerity while living here in the woody retreat. 

A call came to Mrs. Miller to take the responsible 
position of principal of the Ladies' Department of 
Otterbein University, which combined the teaching of 
four or five classes a day with the entire care of the 
young ladies of the school. This, after due consulta- 
tion with her husband and other friends, she accepted, 
and, in the fall of 1862, entered upon the new and 
very arduous work. In August of 1863, while on a 
vacation at the home of Mr. Miller's parents, their 
darling little boy sickened and died, and they returned 
alone to the Westerville home. These were war 
times, and Mr. Miller, after a period of some weeks 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

spent in Camp Chase with many other townsmen as 
militiamen, and while preparing to move to a farm, 
contracted typhoid fever, early in October, when, after 
a hasty run of the fever, he died October 24, 1863. 
Her resignation and return to her father's home fol- 
lowed. Mrs. Fisher, her classmate, was called to 
take her place. After one year, upon the marriage 
of Mrs. Fisher, Mrs. Miller was reappointed and re- 
turned to the school, where she remained for five 
years, when she again resigned, and after one year's 
rest was again recalled and served another term of 
five years. These years, covering from 1862 to 1875, 
have always been regarded by her as most rich and 
rare, furnishing opportunity of very close acquaint- 
ance and friendship with so many hundreds of the very 
best young men and women of our Church. These 
have always been regarded as her girls and boys, 
though many of them have risen to great distinction 
in the Church and in the nation. In 1875, the feeble- 
ness of her mother and father was her loudest call to 
duty, and she resigned finally, though, after the death 
of her mother in 1876 and her father in 1881, she was 
again solicited to return. She wisely, no doubt, de- 
cided that her work in that department of Otterbein 
University had been finished. Early in 1880, she was 
elected a trustee of the Woman's Missionary Associa- 
tion, which she held until 1905 ; in 1886 and 1887, she 
helped Mrs. Keister in the office of the Woman's Mis- 
sionary Association. Upon the death of the very 
competent and beloved president of the Association, 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

Mrs. Sylvia Haywood, October 24, 1886, the Board, 
in annual session at Westfield, 111., May 20, 1887, 
elected Mrs. Miller to the presidency, which position 
she finally accepted, though deeply conscious of her 
inability to fill the place. In 1888, she, in company 
with Mrs. Keister, went as delegate from the Woman's 
Missionary Association to the World's Missionary 
Conference, held in London, England. This was one 
of the largest opportunities of her life to hear and 
meet so many of the most-noted missionary workers 
of this age or of any age. 

[At this point, Mrs. Miller stopped in her narra- 
tive, telling her sister, "I was too tired to finish; any 
one can complete it."] 

From 1888 to 1893, Mrs. Miller was associate editor 
and publisher of the Woman's Evangel, and in 1893 
she succeeded Mrs. Keister as its editor, in which 
capacity she continued until 1904. Her rare qualities 
of mind and heart could have no more suitable field. 
Mrs. Keister, in her valedictory, wrote, "And now I 
present Mrs. L. K. Miller, the teacher of my youth, 
the tender, loving companion of maturer years, the 
peer of the noblest of women, a princess in Israel." 

She came by her interest in missions in no uncertain 
way, as her father was one of the first three to volun- 
teer for missionary service at the opening of the 
African mission. 

In the summer of 1904, she left the office for her 
usual vacation, never to return to her accustomed 
place. She continued ill during the summer and fall, 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

and in October she resigned her position as editor, 
and as president to take effect in the spring of 1905. 

Recovered somewhat in health, but never afterward 
strong, she remained quietly at home with her sister, 
Mrs. Ozias, until, in her last illness, she was removed 
to the home of her youngest sister, Mrs. G. A. Funk- 
houser, where she was ministered to by loving hands, 
and where her sick-room became a gate to heaven. 

Very earlv in the morning, before daybreak, on 
Friday, October 23, she quietly slipped away to be 
with Him whom she loved and served so loyally for 
more than three score years. 

It may be truely said of her that she died as she 
lived, thoughtful of others rather than of herself, 
in love with nature, with no mock or morbid senti- 
ments as to death itself, but with genuine simplicity 
and unfailing trust in her Redeemer and Lord. 

It was a beautiful morning when we laid her away 
on the anniversary of the burial of her husband, just 
forty-five years ago, and of her predecessor as presi- 
dent of the Association, Mrs. Haywood. A few 
special friends gathered at the home and, after a 
prayer of thanksgiving for her life and of renewed 
consecration of our own, we took her to the church 
across the way. For one hour friends streamed by 
her casket, old and young and little children ; men 
high in church and state, as well as those from the 
most obscure homes. Surely to live in the lives of 
these and multitudes of others who loved her is not 
to die. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

The service which followed, which she herself had 
planned, was simple and beautiful. Dr. W. J. Shuey 
and Dr. Henry Garst, lifelong friends, spoke of her 
life, as did also Dr. T. J. Sanders, of Otterbein Uni- 
versity. Dr. A. W. Drury read the sketch of her 
life which she had prepared. The songs, "Face to 
face," "The home of the soul," and the "Glory Song," 
which were sung by Rev. Ray Upson and a male 
quartet, seemed especially appropriate. 

Out in beautiful Woodland Cemetery, surrounded 
by other illustrious dead of our own Church, we laid 
her to rest. The bright morning sun was shining 
through the beautiful autumn-tinted maples; here and 
there we heard the sweet singing of birds. All nature 
seemed joyful that such a true lover of birds and 
flowers, of trees and leaves, of clouds and sun should 
be laid there to await the resurrection morning. 



*The greater part of this sketch was prepared by Mrs. 
Miller herself during her last illness. 



DEVOTIONAL 



It matters little what the world-estimate be, if but the 
heart-life be right. 



I. 

DEVOTIONAL 



OUR PRAISE. 

With eyes intent upon the stars, 
My spirit joins the twinkling host 

In breathing praise through silent lips 
To Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 

Anon I seek the shady wood, 

And catch the wild-bird's joyous note; 
Instant I catch the wild-bird's mood, 

And pour my praise through joyous throat. 

What matter, since the Father hears 

Our breathings through the boundless blue, 

As well our wild, delighted song? 
What matter — so our praise be true ? 



MY DAY. 

What have I done to-day? 

I cannot say ; 
The hours have come and gone, 

— The snow came down 
11 



DEVOTIONAL 

In beauteous, fitful showers 
For hours and hours ; 

The wind shook hard the pane, 
The jealous rain 

Chased all the snow away, 
In seeming play. 

Thus all that I have done. 

As sets the sun. 
Seems lost, as lost the snow ! 

And yet I know 
That He who counts our hairs, 

And feels our cares, 
And makes the snow, transformed, 

Refresh the ground, 
Can cause some (Kw], or word 

That he hath heard, 
Transformed by his own grace 

Some life to bless. 

As He reviews my day, 

He, kind, may say. 
In accents sweet and mild, 

"Well done, mv child." 



LIFT UP THINE EYES. 

How oft we walk the bridge of life 
With eyes intent upon the rough- 
Ilewn hoards we tread — the huge wrought nails 
12 



TOEMS 

That clinch them fast, unheeding quite 
The limpid stream that laughs below ; 
Unheeding quite the deep blue sky 
With sun, or moon, or stars bedecked, 
Or friendly floating cloud. 

Lift up thine eyes, O soul of mine, 
To see the things invisible 
Which he, the mighty God hath wrought! 
Thus we become his friends, and share 
The secrets of his mighty heart. 



FRUITION. 

Yearning for one brief hour of pure delight, 
I turned the key on Care, and beckoned Joy 
To take a stroll with me across the field 
To where the apple orchard stood and spread 
Its boughs for blossoms and for luscious fruits, 
Whose grand old trees 1 knew, by place and name. 
— 'Twas at the time of blossoms. One there was 
Rent by some ruthless hand when but a twig, 
Or, by mishap, and now a rustic seat 
It made, where Nature's child might sit and dream ; 
Where tired swain, from golden harvest field 
Might pause to catch his breath as homeward led 
By note of dinner-horn. There took we seat. 
— 'Twas at the time of blossoms ; pink and white 
And reddest buds, bouquets exquisite made 
Above our head. 

1:5 



DEVOTIONAL 

The bee went burdened down 
With sweets toward her hive, and odors rare 
Recalled the mit'red priests, who incense burned 
Before the mercy-seat in times remote. 
And as we gazed, the orchard seemed 
( )ne great pure altar breathing sweets to God; 
And busy birds the trees among, were seen — 
A robin on her nest looked out askant ; 
Redbirds were building nests ; and there a wren 
Went winding down, head foremost round the trunk ; 
And side by side a pair of doves sat low 
And cooed their loves. 

While far above, on topmost bough there swayed 
The catbird giving wildest serenade : 
And meadow-larks piped sweetly from the stakes, 
While drummers in gay coats sat on old trees 
Tipping their rod caps to me as they drummed. 
— From everywhere sweet music seemed to float 
Till the old orchard seemed a gallery 
Whence upward rose perpetual songs of praise. 
Mv hour was waning and I said, "Just wait 
Till unborn birdies fly from out these nests 
And sing, and time and breezes brush away 
The pink and white from these old trees ; 
Then come again this way and you shall see 
Fruition ; this is promise, this is hope." 
— My hour was waning and I said again: 
"This is a cup of the sweet joy that living 
Gives, 'twixt draughts of ills, to those who nature 
Love, who love the blessed God. 

14 



TOEMS 



How must the cup o'erflow at length in heaven, 
When sorrow's bundles have been tied and burned, 
And God's own hand shall wipe away our tears, 
And hope and promise to fruition yield." 



"SUFFER THE CHILDREN TO COME." 

One Lord's day spoke our pastor sweetly kind, 
"Let those who love the Christ this altar seek, 

And join our ranks, the holy pledges take, 

To walk in all good conscience, true and meek." 

A group of children — rosy girls and boys 
With bared head, and earnest, open face 

Came forth before the throng, and meekly knelt 
To pledge their lives to Him who proffers grace. 

And, as the pastor through the altar walked 
To lay his hand in baptism on each brow, 

Walked One beside him, clad in seamless dress, 
And sealed with holy favor each child-vow. 

And then, as if he feared some murmur from 
The throng, with pierced hand uplift he said, 

"Suffer these little ones to come to me." 
Then gently laid it on each shining head. 

"Forbid them not ; of such my kingdom is ; 

These are my lambs ; they early hear my voice ; 

15 



DEVOTIONAL 



My fold is warm and safe ; no wolves can harm ; 
Feed ye my lambs ; help guard their blessed 
choice." 



THE HIGHEST GOOD. 

She sat and counted o'er the good 
Of half a hundred years, and said: 

"Shall I misname, and call aught ill 
Which Christ lets fall upon my head ? 

"Perchance in loving search he found 
This furnace chiefest good of all, 

And that beside me, through these flames, 
He walks to catch each spirit-call ; 

That, the refining almost done, 

I soon may walk with Christ at home." 



SWEEPING INTO GLORY. 

Speak not of the grave or dying — ■ 
Let me triumph over these ; 

Let me rise on wings of glory, 
And behold Him as he is. 

Let me see his thorn-pierced temples, 
See his pierced hands and side ; 

Let me hear his words so tender ; 
Let me at his feet abide. 

16 



POEMS 

Oh, the depth of love of Jesus ! 

All its sweetness who can tell ? 
Let me linger in his presence — 

Drink at Love's unfathomed well. 

Let me go to be forever 

In the Paradise above; 
Speak not of the grave or dying; 

Sing of God's unfathomed love. 

Ope the windows. Let the fragrance 
Of sweet spring pour gently in; 

Let my soul lift up her pinions — 
Soar from out this house of sin. 

Is this dying, blessed Jesus? 

Death cannot before thee stand. 
I am waking in thy likeness, 

Satisfied — hold tight my hand. 

Am I dying? Nay, I'm living. 

Jesus triumphed over death. 
Jesus in my heart abiding — 

I can feel his living breath. 

I am sweeping into glory! 

Drop this clay — they call it death ; 
I am sweeping into glory, 

Borne aloft on Jesus' breath. 



17 



DEVOTIONAL 

UNITE FOR RIGHT. 

Shut down the gates ; let holy stillness reign 
Throughout the clay the Lord hath made and blessed ! 
Remove the awful guilt; blot out the stain 
From our fair land, — give all the people rest. 

Let every heathen band that needs must wait 
"Beside the stuff" his ruling sovereign sent, 
See tightly shut Chicago's Sabbath-gate, 
And every Christian resting in his tent. 

Let "victory for right" be loudly sung. 
The church of God hath pleaded not in vain, — 
Let all the bells of earth be wildly rung; 
Jehovah's mandate hath triumph'd again ! 

Rise, church of God! put on new strength to-day; 
Too long, alas! we've tremb'ling cowards stood, 
And let foul drunkenness and crime have sway 
And drink with greed our nation's richest blood ! 

Rise and unite, unsheathe Truth's mighty sword, 
Strike bold "for God and home and native land"! 
Firmer than mountains stands God's Holy Word 
To crown with triumph his commissioned band. 



NOT YET TOO LATE. 

Not yet too late, though thou canst not recall 
Thy wasted years. To-day — oh, joy ! is thine ; 

18 




I lie M.ik->Iv ol Skj) .itul Sen" 



POEMS 

Seize it with firmest grasp, and then, behold! 

To-morrow shall be thine, and each new day 
Will yield tlicc its rich SWeetl , and thus, and thus 
'I liv crown may yd be won, and thou sit high 
Among earth's noble one- to dare and do; 
And, joy of joys! the greal eternity 
Will then unfold its cycles vast, and thou 
Mav'st mingle with the holy throng and scan 
The wondrous works and plans of dim who rules 

Above all men and finite things, who breathes 

This day these words of hope, "Not yet too late." 



OUR TRIBUTE. 

'Like as a father pitieth his children, 
So the Lord pitieth them that fear him; 
For he knoweth our frame — 
lie remembereth that we arc dust." 

Then doth the Father know our grief 

This day, that spread beneath, above, 

Is all this majesty of sky 

And sea, of cloud and wave; (lis love 

So full, and our poor lips so dumb? 

I low vain arc tears! No words hut thine 

Are fit to offer hack to thee; 

But through our tears hear us repeat, 

"Thy works praise thee, O Lord, our Lord ; 

"To thee, to thec belongeth praise." 

19 



DEV0TI0NA1 



Beneath us the unfathomed flood, 
Around the sea and sky join hands. 
Vbove are deeps oi blue untrod 
Bui l>v the starry host oi ( rod. 
( ) Jesus, Master, well I know 
Thou walkedsl once o'er Galilee, 
And In my toiling now I Eeel 
Thee walking o'er the waves to me. 
Like Peter, o'er the waves of old, 
I fain would haste to meet my Lord. 
( ) Jesus, let the ocean roar. 
And let it lift its waxes on high 
And break in rainbows at thy feet, 

The best it hath is tribute mete; 
Alas, what tribute ean we bring 

For thy dear love, more deep more 

Than ocean deeps, or deeps oi <k\ ? 
A tear; a Sigh; a broken heart — 

A bitter grief at love so cold 

Are all we have — despise them not. 
Mid-Ocean July 27, rf 



ln.d. 



SLEEP, DEATH. 

death like sleep! in dreams 1 stood 
And watched a weary brother sleep; 

1 said. "Oh, it' he ne'er should wake. 

This would be death!" transfixed 1 stood 

In dreamland, and he never waked! 
20 



POEMS 

Thus, thus with each, with all 'twill be; 

Morn follows night, we sleep, we wake. 

I Pntil al length too deep will be 
The sleep to break al mortal touch — 

And friends belov'd, in whispers low 

Will say, "lie's gone! he never more 

Will wake on earth ! This sleep is deal h !' 
The world looks gray, and life seems hill 

A gift to use for other's weal, 

To li ft Up into h I'e Our kind. 

Thai sleeping they may wake with God. 



IF YE LOVE M E, 
Willi his crude jack knife he had enrved 
A stopper to replace a eork 
['d lost. I saw him hide il oft 
As I drew near, lhat it might he 
A sweet surprise. 

Another knit 
A wiper for my pen with his 
( )wn little hands. With utmost pride 
Each drew it from behind his back 
And laid his j^ift upon my hand. 
What offering, however rare, 
Could be more sweet? Love wrought them both; 

And love doth naught that's poor or mean. 
21 



DEVOTIONAL 

All the day long, amid the hum 

Of busy street, or April breeze, 

Or falling showers, or quiet room 

I hear the voice of One belov'd, 

"If thou love me, if thou love me!" 

O Master, speak! 1 hear thy voice; 

The rustle of thy seamless dress 

Is at my side; what would'st thou say? 

"If thou love me keep thou my words." 

"Better than sacrifice is to obey." 

O brother, sister, hear him speak: 

"Keep my commands, if ye love me." 

O brother, sister, see him stand 

Upon the mount of Olivet. 

Gethsemane is past, the cross, 

The honored cross hath been laid low; 

The grave hath yielded up its dead ; 

The price he paid for love was life. 

"Keep my commands if ye love me." 

This, this of us is all he asks. 

"Go 'therefore into all the world 

And preach my gospel to every creature," 

His greatest and his last command. 

Then upward rose, 'midst angel clouds, 

To wait for man to prove his love. 

Do we love him who gave for us 
His life? To love is to obey. 



POEMS 



What rough carved self, or crude knit life 
Have we upon his altar laid 
For very love? No gift so sweet; 
Love doeth naught that's poor or mean. 



KINGLY GIVING. 

I asked an egg, they gave a stone ; 
I asked a fish, they gave a bone ; 
I asked for light, they hid it quite, 
And gave me gloom. 

I asked of Him, he gave me all ; 
I called, he answered back my call ; 
I asked for light, he made it bright- 
He gave me all. 



GIVING WILL BLESS THEE. 

Wouldst thou find satisfaction at the well of life? 
Then haste to let thy pitcher down and give to drink 
Those who in spirit-blindness cannot find the well; 
Thus shalt thou minister unto the blessed Christ, 
And in return a well of living water up 
In thy heart shall spring. 

23 



DEVOTIONAL 

TO-DAY. 

One day ; there is but one to learn, to do ; 
It is to-day. I make myself to-day 
What I must be in ages yet unborn. 
For all of life is made out of "to-days." 

The eagle, soaring toward her rock-girt nest 
High up among the mountain crags, 

Dreams not of sacrifice that she must beat 
The air with steady stroke of wing, 

For she doth find amid the heights delight 

Upon delight — her loves, her God-planned home. 

God wills thy spirit shall be free 
To soar aloft as mountain bird — 
From height to height, until thou stand 
Before his throne, in garb of light 
'Mong the redeemed — forever free. 



24 



MISSIONARY 



They who would be veteran-crowned at last must enlist and 
fight in the war while it is raging, the only limit to duty is 
the limit of opportunity. 



II. 

MISSIONARY 



BID US GO FORWARD.* 

I'm list'ning to the silver bells 

As plaintively they're pealing, 
And o'er my spirit something sad, 

Unhidden quite, is stealing. 

Not what we've wrought these fleeting years 
Hath been of goodly seeming; 

But, oh ! the more we might have done, 
If half had not been dreaming. 

The fields afar where seed was sown 

Were only partly tended ; 
How goodly might the fruitage be, 

Were all our forces blended ! 

O Master of the harvests wide, 
We hear thy sweet voice pleading ; 

We sit in meekness at thy feet 
And wait thy faithful leading. 

27 



MISSIONARY 

We need thy touch, we need thy power, 

O 1 lolv Christ, attend us ; 
We cannot meet Sin's blackened hosts 

Unless thou dost defend us. 

Oh. listen to our martyrs' blood, 
As from the ground it crieth ! 
Deem it perpetual sacrifice, 

Which on thy altar lieth. 

We send across the ocean wild 

New heralds ai thy heckon. 
O Christ, protect! O Christ, defend! 

On thy strong power we reckon. 

Bid us go forward. O our God! 

( )r else thy foes will chide us. 
And say thou art not strong enough; 

O Rock of Ages, hide us ! 

Bid us he strong this silver year; 

Let all thy hells be ringing; 
T.et all thy dock obey thy voice. 

Let every heart be singing. 

So shall we till this silver vear 
With all thy treasures olden ; 

And with thy blessing ope the door 
To years that shall be golden. 

♦Written on the Twenty-fifth Anniversary of the W. M. A. 

28 



± 




"A Little Chinese Maid" 



POEMS 

A HEATHEN MAIDEN'S PLEA. 

A busy little Chinese maid 

Had picked tea leaves the live-long day 
In silence ; glancing oft and oft 

At Joss's temple, far away. 

At nightfall, when from brewing urn 
Like incense rose the odors sweet, 

She meekly said : "Who, mother dear, 
Made all these goodly things to eat? 

"I've watched our god so oft, to learn 

If he were busy, e'en like me; 
But there he sits, like stone so cold, 
. With eyes, I know, that cannot see. 

"Could he make tea leaves e'en so sweet ? 

I hate to ask him anything — 
He seems so still and cold and dead, 

While tea leaves live and breathe and sing!' 

The mother sipped her cup of tea 
In sadness, saying: "Hush, my child! 

The spirits of the dead are nigh 

To catch your questions queer and wild!" 

"I hate our god!" the maid replied; 

"I'll pray to things alive — that move ; 
I'll pray to tea leaves, to the stars ; 

I'll hunt for gods that I can love!" 



m 5I0N \ky 

Ah. friends! behold the little maid ; 

I in hands i each oul aci oss the sea : 
Show hei jroui ( rod .1 1 rod oi love 

I ter heai t ci ies out i<> yoiii to me, 



[DEA1 COMPENSATION 

1 n A 1 rica, 'neath 1 1 opic suns, 

Where stately palms reach tow'rd the sky, 
\ native, wand'ring, lost and lone, 

1 [ad laid him 'neath .\ palm to <lio. 

A Christian, from our happy land, 
Unused \^ scenes of heathen rife, 

Benl o'ei him, and, by Love's strong power, 
Revived and won him back \^ life. 

\ ears sped awayj rose church and school; 

rhe native found the Christian's God 
Ami far and wide joyful he taughl 

ihs new found faith in huts of sod. 



\t length \\.<v raged in fury wild; 

Piei cing ai ose the w ai boj 's ci 5 . 
\- club and cutlass hurled and gleamed, 

\r,,l flames rolled wildly toward the sky, 

M 










I . ., 



TOEMS 



The Christian, target of the strife, 
Stood helpless 'mid the awful din ; 

But brave and true the native stood, 
And gave his own life up for him. 



*A native Christian at Rotifunk expressed deep regrel 
that not one of their number had died for the missionaries. 



GOD SPEED OUR MISSIONARIES. 

May God, who math' the heavens above 
And guides with care each wondrous star. 

Guide our beloved ones who sail. 
And speed their ships to lands afar. 

Cod speed the one who sails alone 

Across the broad Pacific sea. 
To rescue from their cruel fate 

Thy "little ones" — for love of thee. 

God speed the eight who eastward sail 
Out o'er Atlantic's crested waves. 

To tell of Jesus Christ, who died 
To save e'en Afric's heathen slaves. 

Encamp, thou angel of the Lord, 

Around each craft, by night, by day; 
Thy moving tent deliverance holds; 
God speed our heralds on their way. 
October, 1S92. 

81 



MISSIONARY 



HOLD THE. ROPES. 

They heard — they heard — our brave, true girls, 

They heard the Savior say, 
As early in life's morn they sought 

The paths where duty lay, 
"Go ye into the pits of sin, 
And living jewels to me win." 

They met the Lord — they heard — they sped 

With haste across the sea, 
To China, where deluded souls 

To Joss bow down the knee. 
To Joss — who hath no living heart 
To break like Christ's, at sorrow's smart. 

To China, where the mothers sit 

With bandaged feet, in pain, 
Grieving that they were women born 

And may not live again. 
Grieving the daughters to them giv'n 
As cursed things, barred out of heav'n ! 

They met the Lord — they heard — they sped 

With haste across the sea, 
Where Afric's children blindly bow 

To "stocks and stones" the knee; 
Where mothers and their babes are sold 
As slaves — as stuff more base than gold ! 

32 



POEMS 

Oh, do we know that all of these 

Are kindred of our Lord ? 
His brethren and his sisters — bought 

By his atoning blood? 
That our brave girls but strive to win 
His long-lost kindred back to him? 

Down in the pit our girls now toil, 
The ropes our hands must hold. 

We must be true and give to them 
Our love, our prayers, our gold. 

And what are these, for gifts most rare 

That all our lives are made to share ? 

We stand in honored womanhood, 

In honored girlhood stand, 
The arms of Christ are surely round 

The children of our land. 
Then, children, help the ropes to hold, 
By gifts of love, and prayer, and gold. 

We stand to-night in garden fair, 

The risen Lord we meet. 
We see the nail-prints in his hands, 

The nail-prints in his feet. 
Now, let our love for him be told 
In largest gifts of love and gold. 



33 



MISSIONARY 



HELP ROLL THE STONE AWAY. 

Hail, women, children ! hail this Woman's Day ! 
A century half of mission toil has well- 
Nigh gone, and we to-day stand facing facts. 
Behold, 't is harvest-time, and peril's hour ! 
Our fathers and our brethren in the Church 
Are bending 'neath the burdens of the year. 
Their golden year ; nay, say we, "our," not "their," — 
Our golden mission year. Our fathers true 
And full of good intent heard clear the call. 
The Macedonian call, "Come over; help us!" 
And heard the Master's voice, "Go ye, go ye." 
And so, long years ago, the work began. 
Our fathers sailed — to us — the untried seas, 
Sailed out into the darkness and the gloom, 
And sought the black man's land, dark Africa; 
And there, amid wild jungles and wild beasts, 
And wilder men, they pitched the God-man's tent, 
And planted there our missionary vine ; 
Planted and nourished it with earnest prayer; 
And years and years of venture and of care 
Chased on the years, and stations here and there 
Were multiplied, and woman's heart was stirred 
By tales of woman's wrongs and children's woes 
In heathen lands — man's abject, wretched slaves. 
And woman's vows were made, and Children's Bands 
Unite to help to spread the tidings of 
The Christ who died — alive forevermore, 
Mighty to save the world. 

34 



POEMS 

And stations here and there were multiplied, 
And other far-off heathen lands were sought, 
And souls for whom the Christ had yearned have 

heard 
The news, the "whosoever will" may take 
The water of life, and thirst no more. 

And souls to-day walk with the Lord in white, 
Redeemed ; and martyrs, true in death, have won 
The crown that f adeth not away for aye ; 
And myriad other souls from heathen night 
To light and life and hope in Christ have waked, 
And now in earnest quest seek their lost kin. 
And wide and wider fields still beck us on, 
And now this golden year and peril's hour 
Must speak again to womanhood and youth ! 
To seek the field, to help the needy cause. 
The debt ! the debt ! the gnawing mission debt ! 
Help wipe it out ! help wipe it out for aye ! 
With steady hand, with fearless heart, we strike 
For freedom and the right ! We bare our arm 
And yield our might to help to fell the foe, 
And send our Church a-singing down the years. 

Hail, women, children ! hail this Woman's Day ! 
Help roll the stone away, and let the Christ 
In triumph win his way in every land. 
September, 1902. 



35 



MISSIONARY 



ONL"* BE STRONG. 
I asked the Master i»>r some word of hope 

ro shout aloud this tearful Woman's Day, 
\u.i thou I s.u and waited patiently; 

For oh, my thoughts, like yours, were fai awa) 
Roaming 'mong homes where first rose prayei and 

'Mid gardens rich in Fruit and flowers fair; 
But u"\\ in darkness where the lights once gleamed, 
Ami blood and sadness o'er the region bare. 

1 list'ning waited; then l heard Him say — 
So sweet he seemed to wipe awa} all tears — 

"Only be strong and of good courage now, 
\iul 1 will make you glad In coming years; 

Think not for one brief moment that 1 slept 
When Satan seemed the master of the field; 

All power is minei I reign f Forget it not ; 

My wa\ so high, hath not yet been revealed. 

"Go forth; be strong; ne'er let your courage droop; 

Tins is your day of bitterness and strife; 
Count not your lives too dear; yield all to me, 

1 gave up heav'n to buy you endless life. 
Ye are my witnesses; the old world sloops! 

llolp wake it from its death-like sloop of sin! 
This is your day— the reaper's day of toil, 

When souls for heaven ye ;»ll may gather in." 

M 



POEMS 

Oh, shame! to sullen hall and think God hard! 

'T is only thai we do nol understand; — 
His way s are higher than the twinkling .tars; 

III', love more tender than a mother's hand. 

We how tO him ; we worship; we adore ; 

And with our tears we wash his pierced feel ; 
Those will we seek, o wrapl in sin's black night, 
"As unto him" we'll help his plans complete. 



OUR MARTYRED FRIENDS. 
Foi this sweet task, ( ) blest ed ( hrii t, in pire 
My thought! As thee in dark Gethsemane 
The angel soothed, and, with his holy touch, 
New strength bestowed to fit for crucial hour, 
So ii ength divine imparl today. 

As, years agone, the toy: , the i hoe., the hal 
Of my own darling boy I held and said, 
"'I he e, these are ;ill that's left," while burning teai 
Like rain fell o'er them, so to day I hold 
'I he things thai once were theirs these lettet weet 
l h.it came oft from afar, and made tin . old 
Evangel ever new gave it new wings 
To fly the nations o'er, bearing sweet, wool , 
Of hope and joy, of wide, deep plans achieved, 
Of plans thai reach oul into coming years; 
I clasp these letter: tighl and cry in grief 
Too deep for sounding line to mete, "/Mas! 

.",7 



M ISSIONAKY 



rhese, these are all that's left !" 

Be still, sad hear! ! 
Full well thou know'sl th) darling boy hath blesl 
Each year, each da} thai sti etcheth through the year, 
And made thee strong to bear, to <l<> for love's 
Own sake. These, whom with love's eternal cord 
So tighl you hold, are only gone away — 
I .ike Moses, hid l>v God anion:' the clouds 
( >n Mebo's heights, in fiery chariol snatched 
\wa\ from earth -so like the hoi) Christ, 
Sore bruised, and pierced, and mocked, and basely 

slain. 



Oh, thinkl thou cansl not weigh then holy (03 
l'o day, as by the Crucified they stand 
And show their wounds for love of him received — 

For love of his lost sheep he eame to save — 

Poor AfHe's sons. (> heart of pity, break 

Anew o'er ihe-e who blindly slew their Lord | 

"Ye did h unto me." They /v - >/<w it not, 

o heart of pity, break anew, and plead 

For these lost souls who dared to slay Christ's own I 

Thus, thus We deem onr niarlvred ones to dav 
Stand near their Lord presenting ofl their wounds. 
The\ live, they live! who dares to think them i\c.\A 

\s years and ages come and go, they'll live 

To plead for that black land drenched with their 

hloi >d. 
The land I'oi w lneh thev died. 
88 



POEM 

We see them, aye, we heai each voice to-day, 
As, bending jusl .1 1>< >vc, scarce oul oi sight, 
They cast their martyr crowns before the Lamb 

Who ei Si was slain ; 

Willi broken hearts we clasp their spirit hands, 
And join with them before the throne to plead 
For A f r i ( ' . poor black sheep the Shepherd's own 
Redeemed, yel age on age in heathen nighl 
Enchained by Satan's hellish power his slavesl 

We pHghl anew our lives tO earnest toil J 

This martyred 1 1< » . 1 forever live! and live 
1 11 us ; and in 1 lie.e pages where 1 heir lives 
Were won) to shine here they imr i live and breathe 
And bless our toil, and make us brave to win 

The losl world hack lo<'luisl. Il mil I ik>| he 
Thai these, <'iir well belov'd, have died in vain. 
July, T898. 



china. 

( 'hiiia Wise, ah ! ( hina hoai y, 

Whai is this thai thou dosl do? 

Make thy gods then (all Iheni true! 
I low il shames thy hoa.led gloryl 



See Jehovah, King of heaven, 
Maker of the stars and sun ; 

Father, Spirit, Savior, ( )ne 
Come to him and he form veil. 



MISSIONARY 



DECENNIAL LINES.* 

Were our clear Savior here to-day, 
In this great room, in human form, 
With pierced side and feet and hands. 
Could we e'en see him sitting there, 
Or there, or here, close by our side, 
Who else could bear to read or speak, 
Or pray ? How would our lips be hushed ; 
And how, with streaming eyes, we'd kneel 
And seek to touch his blessed feet, 
Or hands, or but his garment's hem. 

Or, if to speak our lips were moved, 

What pleas would rise! "Heal thou my son," 

"My father," "mother," "friend!" "Heal thou 

Poor me; I am so sorely grieved. " 

"Save thou a brother lost! Thou canst. 

Lord, if thou wilt." 

And here and there with radiant face 

Would one arise with David's song 

Upon her lips: "Oh, bless the Lord, 

My soul, and all that is within 

Me, bless his holy name! My soul 

Doth magnify and bless the Lord 

For all his wondrous love to me!" 

And here and there would one behind 
1 lim weeping stand and seek to break 
The precious alabaster-box, 

40 



POEMS 

And pour its costly contents on 
His head or feet for very love. 

How would it be with thee, with me, 
What treasure bring, what offering lay 
At his dear feet? What tribute pay 
At this decennial feast to-day? 
Hath he done aught for thee, for me, 
That claims thy meed the ten years gone? 
Ay, think, recall the lonely wilds 
He helped thee cross ! 
The days of grief, the nights of pain, 
The crucial fires he led thee through, 
Yet walked near by, thy anguish soothed, 
And gave thee sleep and peace again. 

Ah, think, recall ! He took thy lamb 
From out the thicket wild and dark 
To his own fold, so safe from harm. 

He took thy son, thy well-beloved, 
From out the battle fierce of life, 
Where darts are hurled, and deadly strife 
Doth rage, because he loved thee so. 

And the beloved aged ones, 

With meek white face and soft white hair, 

With little left but pain and love 

And care, ready and waiting long, 

And ripe, like waiting shock in sun — 

41 



MISSIONARY 

Scorched harvest-field, he took to walk 
The bright green fields above. Oh, think, 
Reflect, what joy and peace are theirs. 
At home to-day, with God at home ! 

And other dear ones yet he keeps 
In his high way by heavenly grace ; 
No one can pluck them from his hand. 

For others still he helps thee pray 

Through scores of years, that they at length 

May bow, believe, and be forgiven. 

What would we bring to thee, O Christ, 
What offering lay at thy dear feet, 
If thou wert sitting here to-day? 

O Jesus, thou art sitting here 
Over against the treasury. 
Beholding how the people cast 
Money therein, as once of old. 
O Savior mine, thy form divine 
By faith we see; thy touch we feel, 
To thee we kneel, to thee we kneel, 
And now in consecration say, 
Lord, here I bring my treasure, all ; 
They all are thine, I give them back 
To thee, thou blessed one, thou Christ, 
And my poor self I give to thee, 
For I am thine, thou boughtest me 

42 



POEMS 

With blood divine, 

Accept the gift, 

Though mean it be; I have naught else. 

Waft, waft thy word, O Christ divine, 

On every wind of heaven that blows, 

O'er every sea, to Greek, to Jew, 

Till one glad jubilee arise 

From every soul, or Greek or Jew, 

Or bond or free, 

"Jesus is very Christ and Lord!" 



*Written on the Tenth Anniversary of the W. M. A. 



13 



NATURE 



Oh, praise God for spring ! We can almost hear the talk 
going on in the ground among the rootlets as they drink in 
new juices from the soil, sending it up to gladden the bushes 
and tree-tops. The buds are swelling, almost bursting with 
delight that they will soon unfold into leaves or blossoms. 
The dear old crows go flapping their glad wings through the 
nether sky; the robins, the blue-birds, the every kind of 
familiar birds fairly vie with each other in shouting their 
heralds of spring. 



III. 

NATURE 



MARCH. 

March, you try me so ! 
You blow and blow, 

You grab my hat and gown, 

You push me down ! 

And shake the naked trees 

With wildest breeze, 

Till every limb doth fight 

To left and right, 

And strike his brother limb 

With wicked vim. 

Nay, I'll not shame you so ; 

Just blow and blow ; 

For you do wake the streams 

From icy dreams, 

And bid them laugh and play 

The livelong day. 

1 love you after all, 
For you do call 

The buds from their deep sleep 

47 



NATURE 

To wake and leap 

To life, and ope to bloom 

From winter's tomb. 

I hear afar the song 

That floats along 

From deep green shades to be; 

From blooming tree 

The wild bird's happy note 

From brimful throat. 

March, you make me glad ! 

1 erst was sad ; 

But you prophetic tell 

In picture well 

Of endless spring at last, 

Death overpast, 

The resurrection morn 

Of death's night born. 

Just blow and blow and blow,— 

I love you so. 



THE BLUE SKY. 

The sky is so blue, so wondrously 

Blue — one can almost see through — to the gates 

Of pearl — where our loved ones went through — 

to heaven ! 
One can almost see into the room so 
Fair, in the mansions He went to prepare. 

48 




March 



POEMS 

It bothers one so just to look and look, 

At the beautiful sky of matchless blue; 

It makes one dream she is nearing her home. 

On a Saturday night, the sun going 

Down, while the loved ones are shading their eyes 

over there 
To look out ! — and with wide open arms 
And with beckoning hands — don't you see 
One can scarce turn away ? 
Oh! the matchless deep blue; it bothers one so! 



OUR FATHER'S SKILL. 

When we with tutored skill would deck 
Some petted being, e'er so small, 
Or bead or broider but a scrap, — 
A trifle that two hands might hide. — 
Into the night we stitch and stitch, 
Till brain and eye are dull with pain, 
And then at morn again the task 
Renew. And after many days 
In glee we shout, " Tis done ! 'tis done !" 
This trifle that two hands might hide. 

But when our Father beautifies, 
Lo ! how his wondrous skill is plied ! 
He bringeth darkness and a cloud, 
Then sets thereon his gorgeous bow. 
Or, launching night while yet 'tis day, 

49 



\ \ i rui 

1 1.- shaketh hard each casemenl frail, 
Ami knocketh bold 'gainst every door, 
While rain .mil sleel dash 'gainst the pane. 

1 1 biii .1 blast »'i one i>i iei hour 
l Vi . ham >■ one fitful >ii earn is ours ; 
One whispei wafted through the night 
We catch, one glimpse too late to grasp 
Of hands outstretched from mystic realms! 

What sorrow K 1 1 * > w *. - 1 1 1 e'en the wind 
rhe win. I. methinks, hath heart and sou!. 
Willi sorrows piercing through and through 
IK- waileth so; he wakes . 1 1 1 < 1 trills 
M \ i lads <'t hat ps with magic sti Ing . 
llu-n sleeps .ii length, with sobbing plaints, 
I ike sobbing child on mother's breast. 
Then i<>\ I the night is overpast. 

Sri'. in>\\ | l.» lei I I is gloi ies 111 

Mr bendeth *>Vr the cradled earth, 
I ike mothei o'ei hei child 
Asleep . wiih kisses w ak< ih it, 
Aiui lu usheth back tin- clouds, 
I ike loving mothei sunn} curls from infant 
bi ow, 



Behold ' tin- sunlight breaketh in I 
Behold! behold! .i world transformed! 
Each hoai \ i< ee .i crown display ■ ' 

BQ 



POJ i . 

Ea< It imy twig a pre* ioua stone I 

' ,| '' gates and bars with fi inge hung I 

And trembling, ihim'ring through and through, 

I •" h inii oi pine a " olitaire"! 

An'l '"", from "ui ea< h tufl oi gra 

As if some peerlei stai oi nighi 

' tad lost its way, and nestling there 

( ""v. i s and blink i a peei le lighi ' 

' fold my hands, my lips are dumb I 

< 'ui of tuch nighi He brings tut h day I 

Whal - an he bring to you and me 

,,, "" l '"" our nighi ? Whal cansl thou say? 



TO a WILD BIRD 

I ' away to yom ne I in the tree, iweel bird, 

Voui song is begun too soon ; 
' ' only a sunshiny winter's day, 
V '"| think 'tis a day in June, 

•'"' ' ■""■•"' i roui strain, so wondrously sweet, 

I linger to heai you ing, 
All wintry thoughts are melting away, 

in my hearl is awaking • pring 

Bui no long< i stay, little bird be gon< I 
'' here's a dark cold torm in the we 1 1 

'I he winds and the snow bul mock yom song 
Fly away in the tree, to yom nei i. 

M 



NATURE 

( M"t the song of life's morn is broken in twain 
Ere the sun hath ascended to noon, 
And the bird of onr love is blown from his bough 
By winter-blasts ushered in June. 



MY SONG. 
You ask For a song? 
Were 1 but a bird 
With a silver-tipped wing. 
Or scarlet, or blue. 
Or rarest old-gold. 
And a throat like the wren. 
Or the peerless brown thrush 
Which seemeth so bold. 
Half concealed in the brush; 

Why then — why then — 
I would sing for you 
The sweetest, the best 
That ever I knew. 

You ask for a song? 
'Tis a marvel you seek. 
With the windows half hid 
'Neath curtains of gray ; 
With the chalice of life 
So drained of its sweet ; 
Roses nipped by the frost 









m* i 



t 




ON THE LOWEST LIMB. 
I heard a song, oh! the sweetesl ^ou^. 

As I wrought 'mong my flowers rare; 
It 'minded me of a zephyr's plaint 

( )r an angel's whispered prayer. 

\ii'l I looked to the top of my maple tree. 

To search for the singer heard, 
Bui no ! mi a tu fled low down limb 

Sal my meek-clad, charming bird. 

And I said, "If I could hut sweetly sinj^ 

A changing, loving hymn, 
I'd gladly sit in my meekest dress, 

Way down on the lowest limb." 





<¥* 



POEMS 

Left — but embers of fires,— 
But the ashes of flowers — 
Jewels broken or lost. 

Nay, nay, I but feign ; 
Too oft it must sing, 
With its foot in the snow, 
And the frost on its wing! 
I would ne'er be a bird 
Though chief of the throng, 
Whose life goeth out 
With the death of its song. 
And 'twere feigning to grieve 
O'er the sear yellow leaf, 
O'er the shadows of gray, 
Or the gold-girdled sheaf, 
Over ungathered fruits, 
Or the frost-ripened ear — 
The crown that is olden 
Is crown of the year. 

The song I would sing 
Were it worthy the theme 
Would be of our home 
Tn the boundless blue sky, 
On that beautiful star 
Or hither or yonder 
We may not know where. 
Perchance not so far ; 
But, wherever is He 

53 



NATURE 



And the blood-ransomed host. 
There, there it will be, 
And in\ riad fold treasure 
For all we have lost. 



CRUELTY IN FASHION. 
\t church last night? Yes, 1 was there, — went 
early and stayed late; but ask me no other questions. 

Text? Yes, there weir both text and sermon; but 
what heard /. when a darling bird sat fettered right 

before my eyes a rat bird, pleading, every moment 

pleading. 

We vya\ each other, birdie and I, while the divine 
service rolled along in all its parts, and I lived the 
seasons o'er and o'er. 

The spring seemed breaking, and with the mellow 
south wind had eome baek my first, wild singingd)irds. 

< Mi, welcome, welcome, to vine and tree! Mere is 
lint for thy nesl ; build and bring forth thy brood, as 
oi" old, in the old apple-tree. 

The sermon rolled on, a low accompaniment to m\ 
thoughts, and imperceptibly we glided into the full 
rich summer-time, and now birdie is reveling in the 

deep green foliage or perched upon the topmost limb. 
He pours out floods of the wildest, gladdest song of 
all the year. 

\noii he hops through the vines peeping, "peek, 
peek." Do you not hear him? Surely / do. Now 
plunge in and bathe. That is it; dip again — again. 

54 



POEMS 

Ah; turn your saucy head and scold, because I want 
to share the ripe, red berries? O birdie, bird, thou 
breakest my heart, for I know that thou art fettered. 
How can one bow the head in prayer with thee sitting 
on her "Sunday hat," all dead! 

O my poor birdie, bird; how gladly would I loose 
thee from the snare and breathe into thy body hal f 
my life, if I might hear thy little feet once more upon 
the pavement, or thy peerless voice again amid the 
vines, waking the day ! 

O birdie, bird ; the sermon nears its close, but thou 
breakest my heart more than the preacher! 

I'll wear the feather lost, or plucked from out thy 
tail or wing, but ne'er shall murdered bird sit on my 
Sunday hat, pleading, mutely pleading, louder than 
sermon, from out its mock grave there. 



TO CHILDREN 



Identify yourself with the best of everything, and the best 
will always be yours. 



IV. 
TO CHILDREN 



THE LITTLE KING. 

Little schoolmates, gather near me, 

While I tell a story old, 
Of the little baby Jesus, 

Ne'er till now in rhythm told. 

How he jumped, and laughed, and prattled,- 

Do you ask me how I know? 
He was like our baby brothers, 

And, you know, they do just so. 

Gather closer, while I tell you 

Of the little Jesus boy, 
In the little town of Nazareth, — 

Joseph's pride and Mary's joy. 

How he helped him in his workshop, 
Helped her in her household toil, 

Brought her wood, and water brought her, 
Brought her, filled, the cruse of oil. 

59 



CHILDREN 

Not a murmur, not a grumble, 
Not a sharp or saucy word, 

In his little home in Nazareth, 
From the Jesus boy was heard. 

Little schoolmates, let me tell you, 

Little Jesus did no sin ; 
As we work, and play, and study, 

Let us try to be like him. 



THE BAPTISM. 

A precious task to name this child. 

It must be sweet — the name that's given ; 
For do you know in very truth 

That names on earth are names in heaven? 

The May-sun smiled from out the East; 

The mayflowers yielded sweetest breath ; 
While robins, hopping o'er the grass, 

Chirped, "Katharine Elizabeth." 

They caught it through the doors ajar; 

For thus the dear old bishop saith: 
"I now baptize thee, darling child, 

As 'Katharine Elizabeth.' " 

Up, up they haste, on fleetest wing, 
The angels to this mission given, 

To write it in the dear God's book ; 
For names on earth are names in heaven. 

60 



POEMS 

THE GOSPEL FOR OTHERS. 
Little Luther rocked and sang, 
So sweet his gospel notes, and high 
His anthems rise and outward roll, 
As back and forth the rockers flew, 
And little self hemmed in his view, 
As other selves so often do; 
— "For such a worm as I." 

When soon, his little brother seen, 
Instant his little world grew large; 
As Georgie licked the batter bowl, 
The grand into the grander grew, 
That now he sees the world holds two, 
He sweeter, clearer sings anew, 

— "For such a worm as George!" 



TO THE GIRLS AND BOYS. 
Are you marching with the ages, 

Keeping of the times abreast? 
Are you helping on Right's mission? 

Let me urge you — do your best. 

Life is far too short and precious, 
As the years thus haste away, 

To be growling and complaining 
That things will not go your way! 

61 



CHILDREN 

Life is far too short and precious, 

To be croaking like a frog 
In the stagnant pool of summer, 

Perched upon his slimy log! 

Do not hang upon old coaches, 

Rather push the coach along; 
Crack your whip and shout, "Ho! onward!" 

Drive the wheels of Ri<rht o'er Wroncr. 



IMPROMPTU CRADLE-SONG. 

Two little girls rush up the stair, 

To see our little Daniel. 
Each eager first to capture him, 

Our little baby, Daniel ! 

And now, far into night he sobs, 

Our tiny little Daniel. 
Sleeping, he sobs from very fright, 

Our sweetie, baby, Daniel ! 

O Jesus, shepherd, brother, friend, 
See'st thou our little Daniel ? 

Then give one tender look, and soothe 
Our sobbing baby, Daniel. 

Wert thou on earth, O holy One! 
We'd take our little Daniel, 

62 



POEMS 

And traverse hills and rivers wild, 
To have thee touch sweet Daniel. 

By faith we lift our arms aloft, 
And lift aloft our Daniel ; 

Oh, take into thy arms and bless 
Our wee, wee, baby, Daniel ! 



63 



ANNIVERSARY DAYS 



Oh, do we see that the anniversary meeting to be anything 
of a success, anything of a feast, must have at its every table, 
as chief est guest, our risen Lord? 



V. 
ANNIVERSARY DAYS 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 

Hail, day of days, that brought the Christ to earth ! 

Where were that life, that death, without that birth? 

And where eternal life, without that death? 

O mortal man, stand thou with bated breath 

Beside the Babe of Bethlehem and see 

The wondrous plan, wrought in eternity! 

In that sweet Babe, born on that Christmas day, 

The folded hope of all the ages lay. 

Well may the angels o'er the shepherds sing 

Their hallelujahs to the new-born King! 

Well may we children hail thee, brightest day, 

That chased from earth the night of life away. 



THE SONG THE SHEPHERDS HEARD. 
O Christmas-tide! How in the calendar 
Of time thou seemest like a star of heaven ! 
Though onward hurled through space — in its own time 
Returns with undimmed ray to claim its place 
Amid night's diadem of stars — so thou 
To thy own place amid the diadem 

67 



ANNIVERSARY DAYS 



Of days dost make return, glad as of old ; 
And that sweet song of old the shepherd's heard 
As sweet the angels sing to-day as then : 
"Glory to God, good will and peace to men." 



THE HOLY NIGHT. 

How was it all in the long ago, 
When David tended his father's sheep? 
Did he chant his psalms in the stilly night, 
When the air was crisp and the stars gleamed bright? 
Did the angels cheer him. though out of sight, 
In that sacred, mystic long ago? 

Did they tell that where his feet then trod, 
O'er Bethlehem's plains and holy hills. 

In the fullness of time — a thousand years 

Of Israel's triumphs and Israel's fears. 

Victors, then captives, with flowing tears — 
Would walk Messiah, the Son of God? 

Say, how was it all. I want to know. 
When shepherds tended again their sheep — 
In the fullness of time — a thousand years? 
Wore the children waked by the angel cheers 
As they chanted beneath the starry spheres? 
Did they haste to the crib, all aglow? 

Oh, it must, must be the children came. 
And lovingly touched His rosy feet, 
as 



POEMS 



And covered with kisses his dimpled hands 
As he sweetly lay in his swaddling hands 
That holy night in those far-away lands, 

Where redemption had birth in Christ's name. 



CHRISTMAS. 

They tell us that as Christmas times draw near, 
Some favored ones may softly, clearly hear 
Sweet chimes of far-off Bethlehem bells, if but 
Close down to mother earth they press the ear ; 
That e'en the lowing kine and bleating sheep, 
As round the manger crib they meekly pressed 
Dim ages gone, so meaning tones sent forth, 
That mother earth repeats them year by year 
To all the flocks, and sends them round the sphere ; 
That listening hearts may clearly hear again 
The glad, sweet singing of the heavenly host, 
Above the shepherds on Judean hills, 
(For songs immortal never can be lost.) 
If low, in adoration to the new-born King 
We bow, that sweet "Fear not; behold we bring 
Good tidings of great joy; for unto you 
Is born this day a Savior, Christ the Lord. 
Glory to God in the highest, 
And on earth peace — good will toward men." 
This, this we know we clearly hear again. 

G9 



ANNIVERSARY DAYS 

THE MESSAGE OF OUR SAVIOR FRIEND. 

With holy thoughts of Jesus' birth 
Let hearts and hands together blend, 
And never rest till we can send 
The message of our Savior friend 
To all the earth. 



CHRISTMAS MESSAGE. 

'Peace, peace on earth, good will to men" ; 
Earth's ear bent low to catch the strain. 
The heart of God had broke; his Son 
He gave; his peace shall e'er remain. 



THE OLD YEAR. 
TO JESS AND JESSIE. 

What can we write of the old, dying year? 

Can we, without a tremor in our voice 

Pronounce it good — our best ? Ah ! let us see ! 

We dare not look our way — a heavy film 

Hangs o'er our eyes ; we see through mists and clouds 

That hem our vision in like clouds of night ; 

But turn ; look outward, upward ; pierce the gloom 

With Faith's keen eye, and see a Shepherd kind. 

With thy lov'd lamb upon his shoulder laid ! 

Nor wolf, nor tempest wild, nor sin can reach 

His fold — forever and forever safe. 

His words, "I love him — I love Jesus," come 

70 



POEMS 

Back to us now without the tone of pain, 
And if we list, we'll hear him "playing with the chil- 
dren there." 
We'll look his way, and call the year the best, 
Because our darling boy hath reached his home. 



THE OLD, THE NEW. 
PART FIRST. 

I slept; I dreamed I saw the Old Year lying 
Upon the hard, cold earth — the wild winds sighing; 
His garments thin and torn, his gray locks flying — 
Unwept, alone, the Old Year lay a-dying. 

"Why is it thus?" I asked; "Why thus forsaken? 
Deaths of all kindly monarchs griefs awaken." 
Along the ground rolled answer, bold, yet artless, 
"Monarchs unwept have ever been but heartless." 

PART SECOND. 

I slept ; I dreamed I saw the New Year coming 
From out the east, a sweet tune gaily humming, 
Beside, behind, an escort strong attending, 
Loaded with goods, — their very backs were bending. 

The chief gave shout, — each burden-bearer shouted, — 
"Here's for the people! Hard times must be routed." 
Then westward rolled glad songs and joyous weeping, 
For, oh ! God's people fast-days had been keeping. 

71 



ANNIVERSARY DAYS 

THE NEW YEAR. 

Hail, new-born year, that leacl'st the century ! 
We greet thee glad ; thrice welcome to our sphere ! 
As bell-sheep that doth leap the bars and lead 
The charmed flock to pastures green and sweet — 
To brooks that laugh and leap to slake their thirst 
And hillside shades that beck to noontide rest — 
So thou, the bell-sheep of the flock of years 
That leap'st the bars of time, be kind and true. 
And lead to fields of peace and quietness 
Alone ; and lure by thy clear, ringing tones 
The years to come, to follow in thy tread, 
That 'round our dear old world may ring again 
The bells of gladness and the peace of God, 
When heathen kings no more shall "set themselves," 
Nor rage against the Lord's anointed One, 
But when the Prince of Peace shall hold full swav 
Through every land, through all the years to be. 



BETWEEN TWO CENTURIES. 

Oh, holy midnight hour ! But one brief dot 
Between two centuries ! A breathless hush, 
In which the farewells of the dying year. 
The dying century, float through the night 
To meet the glad, bright century to come. 
An instant here we wait, betwixt two doors, 
Just while the clock strikes twelve ; and then — and 
then — 

72 



POEMS 

The century old is wrapped away for aye 
With those that sleep in the eternal past ! 
We cover o'er his bier with flowers rare 
That bloom in memory, so fresh and sweet, 
And whisper our farewell with bated breath. 
Then haste to grasp the warm, outstretching hand 
That lifts the latch of the supreme To Be. 
May He who made the stars and calls them all 
By name, who made all human kind, — and knows 
All are but dust, — who sees their direst need. 
And hears his children wail in heathen night, 
And pitieth as father his own child. 
May he baptize the century new with his 
Own hand, and send his Dove of peace and love 
In holy seal, as on th' incarnate Son, 
That "nations in a day" may soon be born 
To light and joy; to know Him who is life, 
To sing the song the shepherds sang of old. 
To sing the song we children love to sing 
Of him who washed us in his cleansing blood ; 
Then shall all kindreds of the earth proclaim 
The century herald of the Christ as King. 
1900-1901- 



THE OLD, THE NEW. 
On the mountain top at midnight. 

In the moonlight white and cold. 
Sit we watching, earnest watching; 
Strangers meet — the New, the Old. 
73 



ANNIVERSARY DAYS 

Fain we'd hold the tried, the faithful, 

Praise his kindly ministry. 
What ill seemed, hath, when unfolded, 

Been but good to mine and me. 

Quick the New Year shook his garments, 
Wrapped them o'er the dear Old Year, 

Wrapped them round the mountain hoary, 
Bold proclaiming, "I am here!" 

Thus forever and forever, 

In life's moonlight white and cold, 
Strangers meet — in vale and mountain, 

And the New infolds the Old. 

( ) my Father ; kindest giver ! 

Thou who givest all the years, 
With thy loving-kindness fill them. 

Wrap thy love around our fears. 

Still forever and forever 

May thy hand in love unfold 
All the myst'ries from us hidden, 

As the New infold? the Old. 



EASTER MORNING. 

O Easter Morn, why wast thou born? 
I've asked it o'er and o'er again ; 

74 



POEMS 

And this is why, I learned at length : 
The whole creation groaned in pain ; 

The graves four thousand years were locked ; 

No fissure marked or stone or sod, 
To prove inspired the seer-bard's words, 

"Yet in my flesh shall I see God." 

The wise, devout, had looked on One 
Who spake as never man had spoke ; 

Who knew men's thoughts, healed sick and blind, 
And broke full many a cruel yoke ; 

Who e'en had raised the dead to life, — 

"The life and resurrection I" 
Proclaimed he clear. "Whoso believes 

On me," he said, "shall never die." 

But he had died, laid down his life, 
Withheld his power himself to save, 

Let base men mock and pierce and slay, 
And safely seal his rock-hewn grave. 

And earth and sky were wrapped in gloom. 

The whole creation groaned in pain ; 
For men had hoped redemption come 

Through him, — their dead should live again. 

Behold the morn ! Oh, day of days ! 
The Marys and the others come 

75 



ANNIVERSARY DAYS 

Laden with spices to embalm, 

While glimmers yet but faint the dawn. 

The seal is broke, the stone rolled back, 
For God hath sent his angels down 

The resurrection to proclaim; 

And thus he gave us Easter morn. 

Oh, think what darkness e'er had reigned 

If sealed had ever been that tomb- 
No love of Christ within the soul. 
No hope to break the spirit's gloom! 

Oh, think of hapless heathen lands. 

Where birth and death and risen Lord 
Are all unknown, — no hope, no light, 

The Easter message all unheard. 

Oh, see thy little ones bow down 

To gods of straw or wood or stone; 

No pitying Christ, no cleansing blood, 
No Easter tidings for thine own ! 

Then hasten, hasten o'er the seas. 

Thou hast the Bread of Life to give; 
Thou hast the Light, the living Word ; 

Haste, haste, and those shall wake and li 



vo. 



76 



POEMS 

THE LORD IS RISEN. 
What aileth you, O weary women, come 

With your sweet spices thus so early brought, 
Prepared with breaking hearts and streaming eyes ? 

Love's offering pure hath truly well been wrought. 

No further need of these; the empty tomb, 
The napkin laid away, the thorny crown, 

All whisper not of death, but victory; 

Not of the night, but of hope's glorious dawn. 

Haste ! heed the angel ! for behold I see 

One, radiant, walking o'er the garden sward. 

Lift up your eyes, nor longer be dismayed, 
For, joy of joys, it is our risen Lord! 

O burdened, weary-hearted, ruined world, 
Behold the crucified, now risen King! 

Lift up your heads, ye everlasting doors! 
Let earth and heaven with hallelujahs ring! 



RESURRECTION DAY. 
See here the churchyard, where our toilers sleep; 
Our well belov'd. Come, let us softly walk 
Among their beds in the still morning hour, 
And listen to the voices murmuring low 
And sweet from out the dew-tipped cypress trees, 
And strange yet lute-like strains that from the hedge 

77 



ANNIVERSARY DAYS 

Of blooming heliotrope the wild birds chant; 
And e'en the little brook that leaps along 
Between yon hills hath some weird tale to tell. 
"What is the import of these mystic tones?" 
I ask me, as I pick a blade of grass 
Or pebble from each mound, 'mid blinding tears. 
"They are not here," a voice said to my heart ; 
"Why seek the living 'mong these far-off dead? 
These whom ye seek but sleep ; they are not dead. 
'I am the resurrection and the life.' 
They who believe in me shall never die; 
These all shall rise again! believ'st thou this?" 
Yea, Lord, thou art the Christ, the Son of God ; 
E'en now we feel thy power; we own thy sway, 
And crown thee glorious Lord of life and death! 



"WHY WEEPEST THOU?" 

Oh, list, fond breaking heart, to the clear tones 

Of spring! What but the resurrection voice 

Of Him who is "the resurrection and 

The life" could wake dumb nature from its sleep 

To sweet-voiced music, verdure, and to bloom? 

"Why weepest thou?" Think not that he, the Christ, 

Can e'er forget thee, or thy well beloved 

And mine. I know that his clear call, "Awake ! 

Come forth!" will thrill each pulseless heart to life 

And love and boundless joy ; and we shall clasp 

Their hands, together look into his face 

78 



POEMS 



Divine, and sing the love that died to save. 

"Why weepest thou?" Lift up thy face! Thy Christ 

Shall wake thy dead and wipe thy tears away. 



THANKSGIVING. 

Since early dawn, in candid mood I've sat, 
Watching the train of good things drive a-past 
The windows of my soul ; and now the sun 
Goes down in glory in the west, and yet 
The train unbroken moves ; and in the haze 
Of evening twilight sit I still, as one 
Reclining on the pillows of a summer cloud ; 
The Everlasting Arms beneath, upholding all. 
Oh, go thou forth and count the stars of night, 
Or glit'ring sands upon the ocean shore, 
Then tell me, if thou dare, thy gifts are less. 
Give God full thanks, O soul ! Thanksgivings give, 
As one reclining on the pillows of 
A summer cloud, thy God upholding thee. 



THANKSGIVING BELLS. 
Thanksgiving bells, oh, hear them call 

Across the beautiful snow; 
And arm in arm, 'long winding ways, — 
As our fathers did in the olden days, 

Their hearts with love all aglow, — 

79 



ANNIVERSARY DAYS 



We'll heed the call, at the altar kneel, 
In glad response to the bell's sweet peal 
And the heart-chimes of long ago. 



THE BOYS IN BLUE. 

Tis "Memorial Day," and I hear the sweet 
Strains of the bands that are playing; and oh! 
The thought will come up of the dear boys in blue 
Who went off to war in that long time ago ; 
And it seems all so new ! 
I can see them yet — so young and so true. 
As proudly they stepped to the fife and drum ; 
Away from school in the old college town — 
And so many remained — out on the field. 
And never came home — though the fife and drum 
Keep thumping and calling so long. 
Now, how can one write when the drum and the fife 
And the horn — go marching along ; 
And the flowers and the flags and the tears 
Are all one can give to the grave of each 
Hero of old — who fought to the death 
Our Union to save — in that long, long ago? 



Sin 



POEMS 

A HUNDRED YEARS.* 

A hundred years ! Oh, who that stands to-day 

In this great throng can grasp the meaning of 

A hundred years ? Lo ! trace it backward day 

By day, and seek to gather of impact 

The doing, thinking, living, of one soul — 

One single, mortal life ! What heights of joy — 

What depths of woe — what humdrum toil between? 

And then — the sum — the myriad lives that stretch 

The century through ! Oh, think — a hundred years ! 

Step softly here to-day, my friends ; right here 

Beside this mound — perchance the rustle of 

Angelic wings may touch thy ear, or fan 

Thy cheek or brow ; one feels the spirit tread 

Of saints who patient toiled a hundred years 

Ago ! Whose feet then echo waked on pavement stone ; 

With one wild bound we leap the century o'er 

And stand right here — a century agone ! 

What stillness reigns in this small, rustic town ! 

Just a few thousand souls to meet and greet; 

But at the evening-tide on yon green sward 

Or flag-crowned knoll — what sweet, unfettered glee ! 

The children playing in the quaint old town ! 

Oh, pause, sweet memory ! — no rush of cars — 

No mad'ning whistles scream, or whirl of wheels! 

No wires above our heads in quivering tones 

Like human heartstrings bringing in the news 

Of weal or woe, of yesternight forsooth, 

Or of this very morn — of good or ill — 

81 



ANNIVERSARY DAYS 

From myriad cities in the sisterhood 
Of States ; or from far-off sea-girt isles — 
Or from old England's shores, or the far East 
Which sleeps in its dark, heathen night as dead, 
Where myriad idols lift their hateful forms, 
An insult to the mighty God of heaven! 
We little reck of all the wide world's woes ! 

Close to this town stand the primeval woods 
In rich, unbroken green, stretching toward heaven ; 
From out whose wilds the timid, meek-eyed deer 
In wild bounds leap o'er dale or babbling brook ; 
Within whose depths crouch fierce and direful beasts 
Of prey; while flocks of game tempt oft the shot 
Of hunter bold; and wild birds clear and sweet 
Trill their glad songs, waking at early dawn the drowsy 

swain. 
And here forsooth the red man lurks the while 
In the deep shadows of the wild, wild wood! 
Chafing in grief beneath the white man's rule ! 
Ah ! think — recall ; an awful chasm is a hundred years ; 
We listen for the voices of the men 
Who planned and wrought with hand and heart and 

brain. 
A hundred years ! Our grandsires they — 
Our fathers yet unborn ! 
Come — gather close about this sacred mound 
And let us hear again our grandsires speak 
From out the records of the hallowed past. 
What of our church a hundred years ago ! 

82 



POEMS 

A little group we find — a handful mere — 

Who stood for God and right, who sought not fame, 

Though first to know His will who spake from heaven ; 

Who sought not honors from the hands of men 

But wept when honors came — nor deemed themselves 

Worthy to take the highest proffered place. 

Beside them stood, we know, their fair-faced dames — 

Stood by and onward urged them in their toil. 

Though silent oft the record of their deeds, 

We know they lived and planned and wrought and 

prayed 
And gathered up the tangled threads that make 
The warp and woof of life; until "Well done" 
Was whispered from the throne ; "Well done ; come 

hence." 
Oh \ honored grandsires and granddames ! We bless 
The God who gave you breath and sturdy soul 
To brave the formal church, the rigid times, 
The persecutions bold, — that make men quail, 
Of weaker spirit-mold, — we sign your creed revised. 
We link our lives with yours; and here we stand 
"United Brethren in the Christ" — after 
A hundred years, united still 
In Him who came to seek and save the lost. 

Come closer to this sacred mound to-day; 
Come ! Let us speak the praise of Him who gave 
Us name and sturdy creed to suit the times ; 
Our own, our strong, heroic Otterbein ! 
God grant that more and more his robust worth 

83 



ANNIVERSARY DAYS 

May help mold characters of strongest cast ; 

To preach the Living Word to dying men — 

We hail this day of days that brought us here 

To stand in sacred fellowship beside 

This tomb — this church his fittest monument, 

With colleges and schools of sacred lore — 

With mission fields and martyrs' graves in far-off 

heathen lands ; 
And on old ocean's isles ; with brave souls manned ; 
With hundred thousands whom the century won 
And myriad youth and children linked in one 
May these, all these, go marching down the years 
With torches in their hands ; torches of Truth ; 
May virtue grow more strong, and sin and greed 
Meet stern rebuke; until our ministry 
To earth be crowned by Christ's "Well clone, well 

done !" 

Come, let us wake to see our mission true ; 

Let us the voice of Duty hear and heed ; 

Let us arise to Freedom's star-lit height ; 

For half we're bound by pleasure's subtle chain ; 

Half worship we at shrines of ease and gold; 

Let us with vision clear our duty see 

And haste, like Mary, from the tomb away 

To tell sad, hopeless brethren Christ is risen ! 

Behold the far-off islands of the sea 

Half waking to discern their direst needs — 

The far-off heathen ; giant of the East, 

Half opes his eyes and moveth slight his frame. 

84 



POEMS 

But, crippled from his very birth, he lies, 
A helpless beggar, at Bethesda's pool. 
O risen Christ ! Bid us but touch his hand 
In thy great name, and he will rise and walk 
And leap for joy, and shout thy praise aloud 
Till old earth's temples shall thy praise resound. 
Let us awake and rise ! The morning breaks. 
The resurrection voice of spring is harped 
From every tree and flower and blade of grass ; 
From every rill that gushes from the heart 
Of Mother Earth ; from every warbling bird ; 
Let us awake and rise ; the century calls ! 
The resurrection voice of Christ as ne'er 
Before is thrilling all the Christian world ! 
Wide open swing old rusty heathen gates, 
The future full of promise beckons on ! 
A new hope gilds the rosy east; arise, 
Let us enhance the glory of our King! 
Winning new saints to his rich heritage. 

Then shall the King, the Lord himself, come down 
To claim his church, his bride-elect and chaste, 
To call his own to celebrate that feast — 
The promised marriage supper of the Lamb ! 



*Written for the Centennial exercises in Baltimore, Md., 
May 14, 1901, and read by the grave of Philip William Otter- 
bein. 



85 



ANNIVERSARY DAYS 

A SCORE OF YEARS.* 

When mortals blest at birth with harp and lyre, 

When souls aglow with the poetic fire 

Which Orpheus fans with his celestial wings 

Refuse their songs to earnest list'ning ear — 

Refuse entreaty and the plea to hear, 

Then the unborn needs must sing! 

"If these should hold their peace," was said of old 

By One whom all the centuries laud and bless, 

"Then will these stones immediately cry out — 

If these should hold their peace." 

Like a giant old and lame, came my muse along, 
With clumsy shoes, and a staff like weaver's beam. 
And I heard her tread, though she came so late 
When my day was spent in needful toil 
And the night hung low o'er my soul. 
And her voice sounded low as the north wind, 
And cold — but she offered to croak me a song. 
I thought of your low, sweet whispers of love — 
And the warm hearts to greet, and I bade her 
Come in. You will hear the stamp of her crippled 

tread 
And her hoarse, cold voice, which your love must 

warm. 

A score of years ago — I tremble half 

To tell it, lest, forsooth, you look askance 

For marks of age ; adjust your glasses 

And search our locks for a gray hair or two. 



POEMS 



And fancy, perchance, you see— or almost see— 

A wrinkle half-formed on our cheek or brow; 

Away with such delusions ! Go, rather, 

And' search for four-leafed clovers like the dear girls 

Are wont to do, amid the blushing pastures ; 

Go, rather, search for pearls amid the sands 

And pebbles of your lazy creek that flows, 

Or deigns to flow, along your village hills, 

Yet drops asleep amid the lilies floating o'er it. 

Go, rather, search for dew-drops neath the sun 

That burns at high noon o'er the velvet lawn ; 

But look not hitherward for trace of age ! 

What mean those glasses, do you queerly ask. 

If not to aid the eye already dim? 

Ah! childish asking that, when 'tis "the style"— 

They add a look of grace to hazel eyes, 

And take away the glare the lamp light broods ! 

A score of years ! How fleet the foot of Time ! 
Scarce half so long it seems, when with a glance. 
A sudden glance, 'tis viewed as hill-top far 
Seems near from distant hill— the plain concealed— 
But longer half, when slowly backward led, 
Across the intervening plain of days, 
Filled with the joys and griefs that fill the years ; 
As hill-top far seems far from far-off hill 
Viewing the fields, the lakes, the bleating flocks. 
The streams, the woods, or heaths that lie between. 
A score of years ago. and all the fields 
Were green as now ; 

87 



ANNIVERSARY DAYS 

The groves as full of shade and deep repose, 
And in the shadows blushed and smiled sweet flowers 
As deck the woods to-day. 
The birds, the wild glad birds, filled the air 
With carrol, chirps, and wild delightsome song, 
With chatter, twitter, and the rush of wings ; 
And from the far-off fields called out, as now, 
The "Bob-bob White"; 

The sad, sweet dove, as now, 
To loving mate, told oft the same deep griefs. 
And birds of night, upon the moon-lit world, 
Neath these same stars, poured out their plaintive cries. 
All these, as now, in forest-bough or bush ; 
In grassy field, in dove-cot, neath the eaves. 
Or in the chimney's throat, built loving homes, 
W T ooed each his mate, and reared in love their young. 
The roses bloomed as sweet, and poured, as now. 
From crimson lips, their rich and rare perfume. 
The blushing bud as tenderly breathed forth 
W T hispers of love; and all the garden gems 
Lent us their wealth of beauty and of breath. 

A score of years ago a white tent stood, 

A stone's-cast south, bedecked with forest boughs 

And flowers. Its carpet — earth's rich covering. 

At beat of drum and bugle-call we met 

Our first Commencement feast to celebrate — 

Our first alumni birth — we the first born. 

A glad, proud day for Alma Mater and for us. 

These were our themes, and mark ye well 

88 



POEMS 

What resolutions followed as results ! 

"The Moral Hero." Proud and brave and grand 

We saw him stand ; his hand upon his sword, 

His eye upon humanity and God ! 

Foe to all wrong — to human servitude 

A deadly foe. He heard the clanking chain 

That held the slave. He heard the bondman's wail, 

And high toward heaven his sword he flung and cried : 

"To arms! To arms!" And you know all the rest. 

A hundred thousand heroes threw their lives 

Into the arms of Danger and of Death ! 

Theme second, "Water," and sparkling water 

Seemed earth's one so great and only need. 

And "W T ater, water!" sounded down the years 

Until the women joined as one firm band, 

And cried, and sang, and marched, and prayed in dust 

For "Water, water." "Banish rum and wine. 

And all that makes men fools, and blind, and mad, 

And give us water !" 

And Murphy boys took up the sweet refrain, 

And hill-top shouts to hill-top. vale to vale — 

"Water ! water ! sparkling crystal water !" 

And he, sweet soul, our friend who uttered it, 

Hath long been quaffing heaven's crystal flood. 

"The Future of Africa." Came the next. 
And like a seer she spoke of the "to be." 
The possibilities so well portrayed 
That Livingstone, with desperation, toiled 



ANNIVERSARY DAYS 

And died ! And Stanley, on that altar, lays 

His life yet unconsumed. 

A light seems breaking o'er that dismal land — 

The mellow light from Bethlehem's star. 

"Life's Battles." "Fight you them like men and brave," 

She cried who had this theme. Like birds in hedges, 

When the hawk sweeps by; like men in trenches, 

Loud shouting "Bravo," when no danger's near. 

But oh ! when her life's battles she must meet, 

Like Jonah 'neath his gourd, she hid her face 

And tried to die! 

"The Bible," oldest and best book of earth; 

And all the heathen climes should hear the word 

Of life; should hear of Him — the Lamb once slain — 

To lift the world from death to light and life. 

And missionaries took their lives in hand, 

And sought the far dim isles — and nations look and 

live. 
"Our Currency." Oh! ivould he ne'er had oped 
That vexed theme! The nation caught it up 
And wise men stamp and scream and tear their locks 
And look with glaring eyes — yet, all we learn 
Is, "our currency" is cheap and scarce! 

"The Beautiful." And like a strong-winged bird 
He carried us away to see his theme 
In landscape lying like a sleeping child 
Between the hills ; in laughing brook, in grove. 
In mountains dreaming with their hoary heads, 

90 



POEMS 

Pillowed upon the clouds in the dainty tints 

That hang about the op'ning gates of day. 

In the gorgeous sunset gilding all the west ; 

Then fading, melting, dying into night, 

With but a tender breath upon the sky. 

Impatient, he, with tints that fade away, 

With scenes so often marred, he sought the clime 

"Where beauty in perfection dwells." 

Mark well your themes to-day, my youthful friends ; 

Ye needs must meet your words and deeds again, 

As scores of years adown the ages sweep. 

A score of years to come, the cherubs of to-day 

Will fill your place — you stand in ours — and we — 

Ah well, it matters not, or here, or there, 

If but life's work be done. 



. *Written on the Twentieth Anniversary of her gradua- 
tion from Otterbein University. 



GOLDEN WEDDING ANNIVERSARY. 
TO REV. W. J. SHUEY AND WIFE. 

I have searched for something dainty 
That my eye might chance to find ; 

Something, nameless, that might tell you 
Of my feeling, true and kind. 

Something you might love to handle — 
Hang on wall with tender touch, 

As you whispered to each other, 
"Oh, we prize this very much." 

91 



ANNIVERSARY DAYS 

But the afternoon is waning 
Of your Golden Wedding Day ; 

And I saunter, empty handed, 
'Long the busy, dusty way. 

Just to greet you when I meet you. 

And to say, I hold you dear 
Through the changes that have brought you 

To this happy Golden Year. 

May the Christ, who was at Cana, 
Then, to crown that wedding feast, 

Be at this, your Golden Wedding, 
Your most highly-honored guest. 

Tender, loving Christ of Cana, 

Linger near you through the years — 

Breaking to your hearts his bounty, 
Wiping all your falling tears. 



SIXTIETH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY 
GREETINGS. 

TO MR. AND MRS. SAMUEL HIVELY. 

Just three-score years ago to-day — 
How sweet the apple blossoms then ! 

How pink the peach, how white the plum! 
Oh, could we see them but again 

As on that primal wedding day 

The spring bent forward e'en to lend 

92 



POEMS 

Its charms of blossoms, pink and white, 
To bind the life of friend to friend. 

Ah ! days of peace so far remote. 

Again we hear the spinning-wheel, 

As out and in the threads were led. 

Then quaintly measured by the reel. 

We feel the hallowed peace of home : 
No iron horse screamed round the bend, 

Xo wires were webbed across the sky. 
Confusing e'en the lightning's trend. 

In primal forests deep and dark 

The untamed deer stood side by side, 
Antlers aloft ; with meek brown eyes 

Bent each on each as groom and bride. 
And through the night the silence broke 

By great owl-hoots or screeches shrill. 
Or plaintive notes the "kill-deer" waked, 

Or softest plea, the whip-poor-will. 

We stand in awe this hallowed night, 

As. glancing o'er the treeless plain. 
YVe note the change of three-score years 

Since to one flesh were made these twain- 
The deer, the owl. the whip-poor-will — 

The very woods have passed away : 
But these dear friends — a happy pair — 

Still grace their antique wedding day. 



93 



ANNIVERSARY DAYS 

Still hand in hand, and heart to heart, 

As on that day so far remote 
The vows were made — the angel scribe 

In God's own book the pledges wrote. 
Ah, happy hearts ! A loud rebuke 

Are ye to those who strive and strain 
To cast their marriage vows away ; 

To rend to links, the wedding chain. 

As fall the rain-drops and the dew, 

Soothing the lips of mother-earth, 
So both these lives, a blessing fall, 

Refreshing by their very worth. 
No selfish greed of "me and mine," 

But God's great law hath stood above 
All else, and guided word and deed 

Aright — God's own great law of love. 

The man of worth — the worthy cause 

That asked a gift before their door 
Was welcomed in and warmed and helped 

From out their frugal, garnered store. 
We need not ask the secret spring 

Of all their hallowed peace to-night; 
They trusted God in all their ways, 

His will was their supreme delight. 

And thus we greet them here to-night, 
And crown their lives with wreathes of praise, 

94 



POEMS 

As glancing backward through the years, 
We trace their steps through virtue's ways. 

No gloom broods o'er this hallowed night, 
With eyes lit up by Faith's bright ray ; 

We face the East where daylight sleeps, 
And wait for God, the King of Day. 



TRIBUTES 



One need not be born great to make a great success of life, 
but one must work with an earnest purpose to make the most 
of life. 



VI. 

TRIBUTES 



MRS. SYLVIA HAYWOOD. 

Silent we sit beside the sea 

Of Memory, and watch the far 

Off ripples rise and swell to waves 

That roll and wash the hither shore. 

And, oh, sweet thoughts to us they bring 

Of her, to loving sister grown. 

Would they to words as sweet might break. 

And rise and swell to tuneful lay — 

A very psalm of praise to her. 

But note ! the waves but rise and roll 
And break in silence on the shore, 
And leave us waiting, mute and sad ! 
We miss her so ; with harps unstrung, 

We may not sing. 
But list ! above our heads we hear 
A rustle in the nether air — 
A rustle, as of angels' wings 
Astir, — a voice in whisper low, 
''She needs no lay, no psalm of praise; 
Her life so pure her way o'erspreads 
Like fleecy snow, now angel fair." 

99 



TRIBUTES 

Aye, aye! we know, on Duty's mount, 
Before the Lord, calmly she stood 
To hear him pass — after the wind, 
The earthquake shock, the fire were past, 
With mantle wrapped about her face, 
And heart bent low, was quick to hear 
The "still, small voice," and quick to do. 

With longing eyes, we turn from eartli — 
Far poorer grown that she hath gone — 
To heaven, and cry to Him who sits 
Upon the throne, to send the one, 
One wise, and strong, and pure in heart, 
On whom, unseen, her mantle dropped. 
As upward, through the opening clouds, 
The chariot rolled on homeward way. 

Silent we wait beside the sea, 
And list the waves break on the shore, 
And dream of that fair land, her home — 
The land that is, the "evermore" — 
And ask, "What will God's answer be?" 



OUR HERITAGE.* 

Step softly, sisters, friends ; for this 
Is sacred ground. Here walked our own 
Beloved Otterbein, these aisles 
100 



POEMS 

Along; the father of our Church. 
Here stood his manly form — right here. 

Oh, speak in whispers low, mayhap 
These olden walls — long may they stand — 
Will echo back his very words ! 
List! how the breath of evening air 
Is full of tones, as o'er our heads, 
Along it floats! 

The silence hath a pond'rous voice 
Heard only by the spirit-self ! 
See, here about this altar fell, 
Long years agone, souls smitten sore 
By darts from God's own quiver hurled 
By Otterbein. Oh, hear him as 
By truth he swayed, himself forgot, 
Pleading, "Be reconciled, O man, 
Repent, believe; the just shall live 
By faith," an old truth hid away, 
Now newly taught. 

Here souls looked up, renewed souls 
To hear these priceless words : "Thy sins 
Are all forgiven; go, sin no more! 
Thy faith hath made thee whole." 

As years sweep on, the children of 

Our Church will long to tread these courts ; 

Catch inspiration from this spot ; 

101 



TRIBUTES 

Hear the old organ's solemn peals, 
That thrilled the soul of Otterbein ; 
Stand yonder by his sacred dust 

And weep for joy, 
That Christ, in tender love, called from 
His home beyond the surging sea 
This man lit up by fire from heav'n ; 
And stirred his mother's heart to say: 
"Go, William, go. On earth I ne'er 
May see thy face again — but go. 
The Lord bless thee and keep thee safe 
And cause his face to shine — 
And with much grace direct thy steps." 

Sleep on, O mortal dust. Thy God 
Hath made thee great — not for thyself, 
But for his own great sake — to teach 
Us all that greatness is in deeds 
To men, for sake of Christ's dear name. 

And sleep, O mother dust. Thy name 
Shall live; thy words shall burn 
In other mother-hearts, till they 
Shall say : "Go, daughter, son ; go fort 1 
Life is not life till, in God's hands, 
It burn a living sacrifice." 

And may it be that from this church 
May go some souls by God's own flame 
Lit up, to preach in heathen lands 

102 



POEMS 



The Christ to save ; thus offering 
A tithe of recompense for our 
Rich heritage in Otterbein. 



*Read in Otterbein's Church, Baltimore, Maryland, May 
12. 1892. 



A TRIBUTE.* 

In early autumn, when the leaves 

Were rarest red and gold upon 

The stately trees, and purple grapes 

Still graced the vines along the slopes, 

There came from out the solemn sea 

A sob of grief, — message of death, — 

That rolled with speed across the land. 

In undertone we heard her plaint 

Who wrought beside him through the years. 

The sea sobs on along its shores, 

And all our people mourn ; for one, 

A prince in Israel has died 

As die earth's braves in battle's strife. 

To him 't is joy and victory 

And life. The long, hard marching done, 

While yet life's goodly vine rich hung 

With purple, wine-filled, luscious grapes 

To feed the hungry, helpless poor 

In heathen jungles dark and wild. 

103 



TRIBUTES 

O Master, care for these, thine own ! 

While low we bow, bereft, rebuked, 

To see thy messenger fall down, 

The semblance of a dire defeat. 

On this rich life, garnered by death 

'T would seem too soon, send showers of grace. 

Loud sound thy bugle call to wake 

Thy heralds to the heathen's cry, 

That they may to the field where fell 

This hero brave, and at his post 

Tell of the Christ mighty to save. 



: Written on hearing of the death of Rev. R. N. West. 

ON THE DEATH OF A LTTTLE CHILD. 
TO REV. AND MRS. S. W. K. 

I have been right 'mong the good angels 
To-day ; they came into the room 

^Yhere I held in my lap a sweet babe ; — 
They took her and carried her home. 

"How many?" Ah, me! I can't tell you, 
My eyes were too dim e'en to see ; 

"Try to guess," do you say? How can I? 
Perchance, — to be safe, — there were three. 

No ; no ; one fleet, mighty immortal 
Could pick up this dear little thing, 

And out in the blush of the morning 
Could tuck her right under his wing. 

104 



POEMS 

Oh, starward ! Oh, homeward, I see them,- 
The eyes of my spirit are wide, — 

One Mighty-one bears her out homeward, 
And myriads sing at his side : 

"Oh, glory to God in the highest, 
To Jesus, the Lamb that was slain!" 

The clouds fold about them and hide them, 
My spirit hath caught their refrain. 

"Oh, glory to God, our Redeemer, 
Death over, — eternal life won!" 

The babe's in the arms of the Savior, 
The angels, I know, have reached home. 



I LOVE THEE. 
TO L. R. K. 

How sweet the words these darling boys 

Send up along the stair, 
From day to day, from hour to hour, 

"I love you — are you there?" 

Oh, list, what ear will not bend low 
To catch a sound so sweet? 

'T love you" piped by childish voice 
Is music quite complete. 
105 



TRIBUTES 



How must it touch the heart of Christ 
To hear float up heav'n's stair, 

"I love thee, O my Savior, Lord! 
I love thee, Thou art there I" 



BETH-EDEN. 

TO OUR MISSIONARIES IN CHINA. 

Come, this Thanksgiving night, and sit with us ; 

The heat that withers quite one's life is past. 

The tread of heathen feet ; the din of voice ; 

The clash of striving men ; all are shut out. 

And in this gentle breeze from yon sea-arm, 

We'll sweetly rest and think of home and friends, 

Then sleep, and dream, and wake refreshed in heart 

To tell the lost of Christ's redeeming love. 

What change hath come? what haven hath been 

reached ? 
Oh, thank the Lord Beth-Eden's realized. 



A LEAF FROM GOETHE'S GRAVE." 

A leaf of deepest crimson blush ; 

I hold it to the sun and breeze, 
And seem to hear the poet's songs 

In sweetest whispers through the trees. 

106 



POEMS 

The ages come ; the ages go ; 

Prelate and peasant seek this shrine, 
And dream above his sacred dust 

Of themes that waked his lute divine. 

We ne'er may see the poet's grave, 

Nor press the soil his feet once pressed ; 

But now this straying crimson leaf 

Wakes tender dreams in human breast. 

New fire is lit ; new faith is born ; 

The brotherhood of man, how sweet ! 
The breath of God which sealed us his, 

Unites the race in chain complete. 



*Suggested on receiving a leaf from Goethe's grave, sent 
by Bishop Mills. 



THREE-SCORE YEARS. 

What is this "Telescope" that's grown so old? 

They fondly name its age as three-score years. 

Is it the tube the masters use at night, 

Turned toward the sky to catch the glories there? 

I've clasped these tubes and gazed till I beheld 

The bodies of the skies so magnified. 

So clearer drawn for me and vivified, 

That I beheld my Lord so glorified 

In all his works, that I did praise his power 

And fall in spirit at his very feet. 

107 



TRIBUTES 

Nay, nay ! the "Telescope" of three-score years 
Is the beloved organ of our Church ; 
Its weekly missive seeking out the homes 
Of all its children, bearing to them there, 
Wherever found, in all our nation wide, 
Rare news of home, of family, of Church — 
"United Brethren in the Lord" by name — 
And of our nation and the world as well. 

Once as a tiny rippling stream it flowed. 

Winding among a few green hills and fields, 

W'aking new growth, new thought, new song, new life 

And aspiration, as the years sped on, 

Till like a fountain it doth flow to-day, 

A pure, sweet flood, blessing the Church, the world. 



SEMI-CENTENNIAL ODE TO OTTERBEIN. 

Hail, dear old Otterbein ! thrice dear to me, 

And to us all who found thy sacred halls 

In years agone. How turn our hearts tow'rd thee 

In tend'rest yearnings, as the devious ways 

Of life we tread; now meeting dire defeat, 

Now on to victory ! 

As dust-stained travelers on the same highway 
Beguile the languid hours in converse sweet 
Of mother, home, and of the long-ago, 

108 



POEMS 

Of laughing childhood and of bounding youth, — 
So we, to-day, would quite unroll the past 
And bid true panoramic views glide by. 

A full half-century her age to-day, 

You say? Then let us crown her queen of queens. 

Forsooth, I knew her not so long ago ; 

But when we met, my years outnumbered hers 

And we were friends — close friends for evermore, 

And she became my mother, I her child, 

And with firm hand and gentle mien she led 

Us heavenward, day by day and year by year. 

What other mother in the universe 

Of schools can be so true, so dear to me 

As she, our very own? Discarding her. 

Turning the back on her, an orphan child 

I'd wander on and on, toward life's close. 

But to my theme : 

Long years ago, when Otterbein was young, 

And we were young, we sought her far-off halls, 

A dusty group of old Miami kin — 

A homesick group, whose eyes were dim with tears. 

A welcome met us, and a gathering in — 

Miami's very first. We studied hard and played ; 

We laughed and cried, obeyed and bent the rules ; 

Climbed fences 'long the swampy streets, 

And, when the ice was thickest, then we slid 

In groups, right where our halls and trees now stand. 

109 



TRIBUTES 

Skates later came, but sliding where the frogs 
Had sung in early spring was rarest fun ! 

How fleet the years! Before we were aware, 

Our school-days stood behind us and we wept 

Again, as round the rustic pillars of 

The tents we wound the evergreens to deck 

The place where our rare eloquence should float 

On graduation day ! Parent and friend 

In admiration bent to catch each word, 

Deeming his own child, friend, the prize had won ; 

And, on the morrow, to the wide, wide world 

We hied, to take our place in that great school 

Of life where masters oft with keen deceit. 

Or kind or iron rule, are met in sway. 

Thrice happy they — thrice blest — whose youth hath 

been 
In Christian home and Christian college spent, 
Tight held by bonds of prayer and faith in God. 

old Otterbein oped wide her doors 
And I, as teacher, matron, entered in; 
And day by day, a dozen years or more, 
In recitation met full many a youth; 
And, domiciled in yon and yon old halls, 
Where erst the flames rolled wild above our heads. 
Bevies of girls and I found "home, sweet home." 
Bevies of girls ! I yet can see them come 
With flowing hair, "dark as a raven's wing," 
Or brown, or gold, — can hear their slippered feet, 

no 



POEMS 

Their rustling gowns, their merry voices ring, 
As called by tinkling bell to evening prayers. 
Wide as the nation scattered now — these girls 
And boys, bearing life's cares, doing life's work, 
While some in shining dress, with sweet, glad face, 
Await us on the hither shore of life 
Beside their crowned Lord. 

Though years in their swift whirl have made all new,- 
The streets, the walks, the buildings, and the yards, 
The trees, a perfect bower for singing birds, — 
Through all this change old Otterbein's the same; 
And well I ween my web is like the web 
You each have wov'n in all the wondrous past, 
Or will in future weave, 
With here and there a varied skein to tint 
To suit the times. Alas, that grief like this 
That breaks all hearts to-day must mar a web ! 
Tis grief to-day, and God's great pity flows 
A healing balm, to woo all lives to him — 
In joy or grief, old Otterbein's the same. 

We gather close around her — closer still, 
As now life's evening, with its tinted sky 
Of gold and rarest red, God's promise of 
A real, a bright to-morrow in his home. 
Bends just above; we gather close around — 
We own her motherhood ; we crown her here 
To-day, with all the thousands who would join 
With us, in the sweet faith that in that world 

111 



TRIBUTES 

Of Love we'll greet her children, and we'll call 
Her name, and claim her presence through the years 
That ne'er wax old. God bless our Otterbein ! 
Gird her with purity and power to mold 
Men strong to meet, and vanquish to the death, 
Each foe to right, each devotee to wrong; 
That all the earth may know that He who led 
And sheltered Israel like a flock doth guard 
And gather to his fold our cherished youth, 
For His name's sake. God bless our Otterbein ! 



A LITTLE TRIBUTE.* 

Who that sits at this festal board 
To-night, hath equal right with me 
To offer tribute to our sire — 
If rights be measured by debts we owe 
Compounded through the flying years? 

Three times ten years ago we met, 
The school-girl and the president. 
Aloft he held the candle bright 
Beneath that unpretentious "stoop" 
Of Ladies' Hall that winter's night. 
To welcome home-sick school-folk in. 
I see him yet. His kindly face 
Shone far more bright than candle-rays. 

112 



POEMS 

Scarce dare we lift these old-time gates, 
Such floods of memories rush in 
To claim a place — a well-earned place. 
As times sped by, the candle bright 
On other nights was held aloft 
'Neath that old stoop of Ladies' Hall. 
A gentle hint, a kind good-night, 
To naughty beaux who lingered yet 
One moment more 'mid groups of girls, 
Lingered to chat of lessons hard, 
To trace and name the stars forsooth, 
Forsooth to whisper "fond regrets'' 
Beneath the star-lit, moon-lit night. 

'Twere well, those torches held aloft 
With firmest yet with kindly hand — 
And face more bright than candle-rays 
Have brightly gleamed through all the years. 

Who hath such right as I to pay 

A tribute to our friend and sire? 

A tribute poor, forsooth, 'twill be, 

But tribute of a grateful heart. 

A friend when life was gay and glad, 

And when the long black shadows fell 

Across a broken, stricken life, 

The Father leaped from out the friend, 

And throwing portals open wide, 

Took home the living and the dead. 



113 



TRIBUTES 

Who that hath friends like him, like her, 
Who stood so constant and so true, 
Close at his side in each good deed, 
Could e'er be poor — could e'er be poor? 

How gladly with unfading wreath 
We'd crown thee, true and kind and good. 
But there's no need — in myriad hearts 
Are altars glowing bright and warm 
With love — a better crown than gold. 
With goodly years thy life is crowned, 
With goodly three-score years and ten. 
Rounded and full the chalice stands ; 
Ne'er can it happen thus again. 

We may not lift the mystic veil 
That hides to-morrow from our ken. 
Who first shall cross Death's river wide, 
Who first shall reach the "shining strand, 
Or thou, or I, or one of these 
Who swell this festive throng to-night, 
W r e may not know, we dare not guess. 
But this we know — full well we know — 
That He who knoweth we are dust 
Will do for each as he sees best. 

The cup must break, the wine must spill, 
The night must creep across the sky ; 
But morning, glorious morning bright, 

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Will haste on gold-tipped wing to wake 
And usher in that perfect day, 
When God himself shall be the lierht. 



*Written for the seventieth birthday of Dr. Lewis Davis, 
February 14, 1884. 



GREETINGS.* 

"Three score and ten," the Bible gives 

To favored men, 

As their allotted span. 
But thou, more blest 'mong men, 
Hast reached thy four score years and ten ! 
Thou blest of God — 
With years, and health, and gold, 
And — gift most rare — a heart 
To spread thy gold for Him 

Who gave it thee. 

We who have felt the touch 
Of thy wide-open hand 
Our work to bless, in far-off 
Heathen lands, we here unite 
In heart-felt, earnest prayer 
For thee, that other years may fall 
As gently on thy life's long way 
As falls the dew on verdant field, 
As falls the pleasant April rain 
On apple orchard's bloom. 

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TRIBUTES 

And when the "Harvest Home" is sung, 
May thou and we be there — among 
The mansion-housed— in heaven, 

Among the singing throng ; 
We'll grasp thy hand and know thee 
For the good thy gifts have wrought, 
And cast our crowns at Jesus' feet 
And praise him for earth-friendships sweet, 

And all his rarest gifts. 

Together we shall join to sing 
Our loud hosannas to our King. 
God bless thee — our dear friend, 

Forevermore — amen — amen. 



*To Dr. Daniel Price, on his ninetieth birthday, August 23, 
1889. 



THE SEMINARY'S SILVER YEAR. 

A quarter-century of goodly years 

Enrich the Seminary's worthy name, 
While here and yonder, o'er the nation wide, 

Hundreds of men and women speak her fame. 
Her doors have ever open swung alike 

To women and to men, to rich and poor ; 
The measure ne'er hath been of sex or purse, 

But earnest, pure intent found open door. 

The prophets who sincere e'er sought her halls 
For good, have good received ; and good have given 

To other seekers ; oft a hundredfold. 

Out in life's fields, they've garnered in for heaven. 

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POEMS 



See ye her stand upon her beauteous mound 
Scanning the city proud? Each lofty height 
Doth see her meekly sitting in her grove, 
To every churchly soul a beacon light. 

And now she hath attained her Silver Year; 

Planted like tiny mustard-seed, she grew 
And scattered wide her children from her boughs 

From sea to sea, the mighty nation through. 
And e'en in far-off lands where idols dumb 

Are hailed as gods, they earnest seek to save 
From heathen blackness and from heathen wrong 

Some soul who else must fill a Christless grave. 

Lift up your heads, ye friends who love her so, 

Behold your Church, fresh freed from galling chain ! 
What were your Church were she thus left to die? 

What of her pristine glory would remain ? 
Arise, awake ! the prophets' school must live ! 

The girdle of her strength renew again, 
Wipe out her debt, endozv her Silver Year, 

That she a boundless blessing may remain. 



TO THE SEMINARY WOMEN. 
My dear Seminary women : 

I'm a messenger to you. 
First, was called by loving hostess ; 

Then was sent by Master true. 

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TRIBUTES 

Happy message, happy bearer; 

To be sweetly called — then sent ! 
Happy ye who gently listen, 

Trusting quite the good intent. 

In this morning, very early, 

As I slept upon my bed ; 
Came the Master, kind, and waked me- 

Bending just above my head. 

Then, a heavy care he gave me — 
Seemed it first like very lead; 

But, as willingly I lifted, 

Patience took the place of dread. 

This my matter — not your message — 

I'll not tell it now to you. 
Only this : that willing lifting 

Often makes us strong to do. 

This, His message to the women : 
"I have work for each to do 

In the now and the hereafter; 
Lo, I now commission you. 

"Put your hearts beneath each burden, 

Instant you will find relief. 
With my own strong arm I'll help you 

Train each vine and bind each sheaf. 

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POEMS 

"With my own strong arm I'll help you, 
If you will but do your best ; 

Hearts beneath each burden lifting 
I will surely do the rest." 

Vain I sought for other message 
As he bent above my head, 

Clad in seamless dress familiar, 
These the very words he said. 

Vain I sought for other message, 
For the night began to wane; 

And the streams of golden sunlight 
Softly kissed my window-pane. 

When these words again repeating. 
And, with loving look impressed, 

"Hearts beneath each burden lifting, 
I, your Lord, will do the rest." 



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MISCELLANEOUS 



I may not be able to write again, and so will say a loving 
good-by. Truly, "He maketh me to lie down in green 
pastures; He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth 
my soul" even here and now. What will it be when the heavy 
foot shall be left behind, and when we shall enter the better 
land! 

— From her last message. 



VII. 
MISCELLANEOUS 



WHEN I AM OLD.* 

When I am old, will the world to me 

Wear a robe so fair and bright? 
And shall I gaze on its green-turfed hills 

With such pleasure and delight? 
Shall I then at evening's loved, lone hour, 

Steal quietly away, 
Or with a group of happy friends 

To the grassy meadows stray? 

Shall I then be gay, my step be light, 

And my heart be free from care? 
My brow un furrowed, and no threads 

Of silver in my hair? 
Shall I then see my heart's young dreams 

All realized, unfold, 
Sending a thrill of joy, as now. 

To my heart — when I am old? 

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MISCELLANEOUS 

When I am old, shall I love so well 

The pleasantries of earth? 
Shall I love to mingle with the throng, 

Where's heard the voice of mirth? 
Shall nature's loved, sweet music then 

Such a binding spell impart? 
Can the murmuring voice of the little rill 

Swell the cords of my aged heart? 

Shall the merry song of the happy bird, 

As it sports from tree to tree, 
Chanting in joy and innocence, 

Be chanted again by me? 
Or shall each note of the lone, lone dove 

Find an echo in my breast, 
And a sigh, low-breathed, shall its language be, 

"How I long in the grave to rest"? 

Oh, give me a heart, when the tide of life 

Is ebbing toward the shore, 
That will never grieve, that will never pine. 

Nor sigh for the days of yore — 
A heart that can say, when the sands of time 

Have nearly all run down, 
"I'm glad I am old, for soon I shall wear 

A bright, immortal crown." 



*Written in 1855, while a student in Otterbein University. 



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POEMS 

THE ISLE OF THE LONG AGO.* 

I feel the winds from that fairy isle, 

The isle of the Long Ago. 
They breathe through my soul so strong the while, 
As I sit and listen, nor deign to smile, 

For my tears — they blind me so. 

There's a dear, tried friend in the Long Ago, 

And his harp hath silken strings, 
And I seem to hear when these soft winds blow 
As to-day — from the shores of the Long Ago — 
His harp, and the song he sings. 

And I fain would echo back his note, 

But my lute is now unstrung; 
And ah ! the island is too remote, 
And the winds, they onward and onward float, 

But ne'er to those shores return. 



*Written after reading '"The River Time." 



WARMED. 

'Twas a cold winter's day, 

Long, long years ago ; 
And sleigh-bells were ringing 

Out over the snow 
When we two went driving 

In sleigh — with steed fleet- 
All tucked in with robes, 

And bricks for our feet. 

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MISCELLANEOUS 

How kind 'twas in Anna! 

So cosy and warm 
Did they keep us, we thought, 

Till sleigh-ride was done. 
But speechless we stood, when, 

'Mid shouts we were told, 
The hrieks that so warmed us 

Were utterly cold ! 

All forgotten for years, 

And ne'er till to-day 
Came a chance for a joke 

In so harmless a way. 
A bright boy rushed in with, 

"I'm awfully cold !" 
Said I, "Come to the stove 

And your cold hands hold !" 
I proposed to tell him 

I only meant play, 
When with — "Warm enough now, 

He bounded away. 

And I laughed as I thought 

Of Anna's old tricks, 
Of the warmth we once got 

From purely cold bricks ; 
And I said, "Let it go, 

Tis not very bad. 
To warm with a joke 

An awful cold lad !" 

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POEMS 

PHILALETHEA.* 

Philalethea ! Philalethea ! 

Thou daughter of our Otterbein ! 
While years remain — come loss, come gain — 

No star like thine shall ever shine. 

Chorus: 

( ) Otterbein, no name like thine! 

O Otterbein, no name like thine! 
Firm stand we here to guard, to guard thy fame; 
Firm stand we here to guard, to guard thy fame. 

Philalethea ! Philalethea ! 

How precious is thy name to me ! 
I'll bear thee love, where'er I rove, 

O'er mountain hoar, o'er raging sea. 

Philalethea ! Philalethea ! 

Our God we pray to guard thee well, 
To him we bow in worship now, 

His praise to sing, his love to tell. 



*Song written for the Philalethean Literary Society, 
Otterbein University. 



THE WOMAN'S CRUSADE. 

They tell me it was all in vain — the men 
Who meet events with narrow, hemmed-in eye — 
That all the prayers and tears poured out were lost, 
In that crusade to check the tide of woe. 



MISCELLANEOUS 

They jest, betimes, at how the women kneeled 
In unkept streets, amid rough, heartless crowds, 
Or in dark, slimy dens, where death was poured 
From red decanters into brimming cups. 

O foolish men! O wickedest of jests! 
Know ye our God will never lose one tear, 
Wrung from sad eyes by hellish deeds of men ; 
No prayer of broken heart will e'er forget. 

And though they tarry very long, and wait, 
And sons and brothers fall before the foe, 
Our God is just and true, and will requite 
The weeping, praying ones of long ago. 

O foolish men! O wickedest of jests! 
Know ye that He who wrote Belshazzar's doom 
Across his banquet walls, in his good time, 
Will write the doom of rum in lines of blood ! 



TABLETS. 

At Gettysburg, upon that hard fought field, 
Are tablets reared to mark the spot where brave 
Men fell in deadly strife, quelling the foe. 

When you and I shall fall, can truth write thus — 
"This, this is where he faced the foe, and fell 
Victor in death" ? God grant it may be so ! 

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